


Welcome to the Darkness 3: Between Less & More

by Predatrix



Series: "Welcome to the Darkness" [3]
Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Anal Sex, Fucking Machines, Id Fic, Imps - Freeform, Love, M/M, Macro/Micro, Sex Toys, Teapot, fantasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:08:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29340351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Predatrix/pseuds/Predatrix
Summary: Jonathan, Gilbert and Childermass buy a strange teapot, and discover a little, and sometimes large, problem.
Relationships: John Childermass/Gilbert Norrell/Jonathan Strange
Series: "Welcome to the Darkness" [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1986418
Comments: 6
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The original story by Nefertiti_22002 was I think a kinkmeme fill for the three of them together, and involves all three of them caught in the Darkness due to an incautious visit by Childermass. 
> 
> The sequel by both of us involves Jonathan and Childermass trying to teach (or bribe) Mr Norrell to do some of the cooking. 
> 
> I write sexual excess and broad comedy, cheerful most of the time, which is what I tend to tag for "Id Fic" because I don't find explicit tags for "sexual excess" here. 
> 
> The inspiration for the main trope was Kinktober last year (yes, I have been writing it that long, although I think I finished it in January), which is where I got a Macro/Micro plot, also where I got the idea for some of the sex toys.
> 
> Many thanks to Nef for the beta!

Life was good for the three denizens of the Darkness.

Mr Norrell had managed to reorganise his library with a combination of spell-work and heavy lifting (the heavy lifting also involved magic rather than musculature), and it was better than ever before. Jonathan Strange had managed a lantern with a blue-ish cast that, if not perfect and with a tendency to sputter, did a fair job of permitting "daylight" for some necessary spells. Childermass professed himself happy that the two of them were permitting him to study rather than simply fetch and carry for them.

All of them (including Mr Norrell) were doing at least the bare minimum of housework and cooking, whether by arcane means or otherwise. All of them (including Jonathan Strange) were trying to do at least the bare minimum of documentation for new spell-work in order that they "would be able to figure out what went wrong" as Mr Norrell said. All of them (including Childermass) enjoyed the strange relationship they now shared, even though none of them had been looking for it when Childermass dropped in.

They'd forgotten that their new world of residence included the odd annoying resident they might not be well prepared to handle, especially considering the Gentleman with Thistledown Hair had apparently been dispatched with the help of the Raven King, and possibly some other Nameless Slave. 

The trouble was when Jonathan not only used Mr Norrell’s special little tea-pot for Mr Norrell’s weak tea to make magical ink, but then broke the good tea-pot they had all been using for various strengths of tea. As usual, it had been a momentary inattention with the best of intentions, but they were rather at a loss. 

There would be no luck in trying to do business with any folk of Christendom, who were not likely to come near the Darkness, and they weren't near the great castles and _brughs_ of the main body of Faerie, which was just as well.

But after a time, a wandering fairy pedlar, a smirking little man in brightly-coloured clothes, came round and offered them a tea-pot that was very nearly as nice. He allowed them to try it. The spout didn't drip. The tea-pot retained heat pleasingly without transferring that to the user's hand. It was a sturdy sky-blue object of an excellent size for providing tea to three men who liked tea (or possibly tea for two men who liked tea and one man who liked hot milk and water flavoured by _some_ tea). 

Really, the only thing they hadn't checked was whether it was inhabited, and given how rare that would be in Christendom, that was a misfortune that could happen to anyone!

When the tea-pot full of imps bespoke him with a mocking laugh, Mr Norrell gave a high-pitched scream that brought the other two running. He pointed weakly at the tea-pot. 

After about five minutes bringing them up to speed with what had actually gone wrong, Jonathan kept guard over the infestation (imp-festation?) while Childermass gave Norrell a sustaining cuddle. 

"Well," said Childermass practically, "we're not going to put up with this every time we want a cup of tea, so I'm sure we can put our minds to it and..."

He was interrupted by the imps boiling forth from the tea-pot in a squealing body, because Jonathan had made everything taste of lavender and it was the one thing they detested. The lid of the tea-pot rocked on the table, and the erstwhile teahabitants stood in their damp rags, bristling with tiny weapons.

The three magicians laughed heartily. It wasn't malice, just relief that tea would be readily available in future. 

However, it is incautious to celebrate victory too early. 

One of the imps sounded an almost inaudible horn. Then another came forward and began to declaim at the three men in a voice that only dogs could hear. Apparently noticing this, he made a gesture, and the sounds became louder:

“Ye shall forget, but when ye sleep  
And while ye sleep, some spell will come  
Whittle your size down to a thumb  
Until the next day's dawn will creep.

The getter-up, the dawn to greet,  
Once merely great shall be as vast  
As ship or house, and this shall last  
All day. Unshod shall be his feet,

And tired he shall be at day's end,  
When some another of ye fools  
Will turn in turn their size. Perhaps tools  
And books and spells are not your friend,

The spell shall only wind up when  
All three of you shall--"

The horn blared across his voice.

The crowd of imps went away somehow. None of the three assembled gentlemen paid particular attention, because Jonathan settled to de-lavender-ising the tea-pot, and this took some time. 

After that, the three of them got into a long argument about whether they were in danger of changing size the next day. 

Mr Norrell, as the resident coward, argued strongly that it was more likely than not.

Childermass could see the matter going either way.

But when Jonathan cast a spell to see what would happen to them when they got up the next day, and it appeared determined they were in no danger, he said, 

"Gentlemen! Shall we mark the occasion with an invigorating bout of buggery?"

Mr Norrell, who often experienced difficulties moving between the blamelessly decent and clean discourse of his daily life and the wild fervour of the bedchamber (since he could be as coarse as either of the other two but only when they were actually _at it)_ squeaked faintly. 

"Was that a 'no', sir?" murmured Childermass. 

Mr Norrell muttered "It wasn't."

Jonathan slapped him on the bottom, and said, "Come on, then!"

They soon stopped thinking about the imps, and Jonathan must have been right, because the next day they were perfectly well. 

They'd quite forgotten it when a very strange paper message arrived on their table a week or two later. First it looked tiny, as if it could hide beneath a nail-paring. Five minutes later, it flapped in the gust of a non-existent breeze and took up half the table. It repeated the change. All of them, despite themselves, tried to catch it changing shape and missed. 

In one of the moments when it was in its large stage, they pulled it down and flipped it between them. In odd and inexpert and very small writing, it said "siZe". Instead of a signature, there was the print of a tiny hand in ink.

Jonathan Strange muttered, "Oh, _hell_ ," under his breath, and then, "I apologise for my previous hasty judgement, gentlemen. It looks as though we've just received a declaration of hostilities."

After trying the same spell Jonathan had used a week previously, they discovered that the spell or curse the imps had used was going to become active the next day.

Mr Norrell was quite impressed at himself for not panicking, although he reserved the option for later. 

"Come on," said Jonathan. "I think it'll take the three of us to break it. Are you with me?"

But the others cast their vote against. 

"Both of us two are Yorkshiremen," said Childermass. "In the North we have a very clear idea that going directly against Faerie isn't going to go well most of the time. Not unless we have the King's blessing, anyway, which I presume you two had to go against the faerie king who brought you here, for us to end up this happy."

Mr Norrell nodded. "We had _our_ spell, and perhaps we had something of the attention of the Raven King. Any less than that it could easily have gone the other way."

"So if we _can't_ break it, what the D---l do you think we ought to do? Lie down and let them walk on us?" demanded Jonathan Strange crossly. 

Childermass snorted and said, "I doubt they're after much more than mischief. If they actually wanted their curse to kill us, they could simply not have alerted us and started to make us all turn size, when they could have picked us off, being better armed."

There ensued a lively argument between Childermass and Jonathan about what exactly had been written. Jonathan pointed out that they might grow enormous. There had been something about changing size repeatedly overnight, or rather that when they got up in the morning they might get bigger or smaller.

At the point they both wanted to discuss what to do next, they both stopped and asked Mr Norrell for his vote. He was warmed by the thought that although they often found him foolish, they thought he was a good judge of possible dangers. He voted for a number of precise and cautious adjustments. They were to be bespelled against crushing force (in case of being squashed while transformed), bespelled for ability to read books while transformed ("Of a certainty we may need to research in an inconvenient state!"), and bespelled against ill-luck, because that was even more important in Faerie than anywhere else. 

After four candlemarks (roughly two hours as far as they could tell), everybody else wanted to go and have dinner. 

"If you miss your dinner," Childermass told Mr Norrell with heavy patience, "you might get weak."

"You might get sloppy if you're rushing it," said Jonathan Strange. Mr Norrell sighed, put-upon: the fact that _he_ had to keep explaining to Jonathan Strange all the time about slapdash workmanship was absolutely no reason for Mr Strange to turn the accusation on him. 

"It wouldn't worry me so much, sir," said Jonathan, "but what they said seemed to cover waking up."

"So the very last thing you should do is wear yourself into a state of collapse where you're not prepared when you sleep," said Childermass. 

"All right," said Mr Norrell. "Whose turn should it be to cook? I know it isn't mine since I made stew last night."

"Well," said Childermass, "it's Jonathan's turn..."

"Good idea!" said Jonathan, and got up quickly, but the other two held him back to point out stew was fine, and quicker than starting something else from cold.

Since there was a fair amount of stew and bread left, they were all right with that, and a bit of cabbage and carrots. Jonathan said he'd encouraged the stew's gravy to stretch to fit, but it was all perfectly edible. Well, as edible as food got with vegetables.

They set to with a will. Well, _most_ of them did.

"I have a number of useful ideas," Mr Norrell said, taking a mouthful of stew. He paused while he ate for the other two to take up the baton of conversation.

When he had finished the mouthful and nobody had, he went on: "Firstly, we need to bring in plenty of rainwater." 

He took another appreciative mouthful of the stew, which was delicious (well, of course it was, he had cooked it himself), and continued, "You see, washing in rainwater might help to conceal our origin."

He took a bite of bread. Nobody else said anything, so he pointed out that smelling of wool, leather, wood, ink, and paper might give creatures of Faerie the advantage, since they were _in_ Faerie and not Christendom. With another mouthful of hot stew (he was quite getting into his stride by now), he continued to discourse readily on the subject. 

After the question of rainwater, they needed some sort of protection against anything bad happening to them when they were changed, so he went on for quite a while about that, although he did remember to keep eating.

"Gilbert, my love, _do shut up,"_ said Jonathan eventually, which actually worked.

Mr Norrell wondered if he looked as deeply hurt as he felt: people weren't really his field, and he doubted his features were any better at showing feelings than his mind was at noticing them in others. But it was the very first time Jonathan Strange had been rude to him since they had fallen in love. 

Childermass snapped, "How dare you! I've earned the right to argue back to him, if need be, but you walk into his life for five minutes and you think you can be like that when he's doing his best?"

After a moment, Jonathan got up, and came to embrace them. Mr Norrell shrugged sulkily away, and Childermass sighed. 

"I _am_ sorry," Jonathan said to both. "I just couldn't think of a diplomatic way of putting it. I can't concentrate on one thing as long as either of you manage to, not without pausing or doing something else. Just resting long enough to have dinner would have cleared my mind a bit, but we weren't. And I _do_ love you, I told you that. I just needed to stop, right then," he told Gilbert, who leaned back fractionally into him.

“I’ll get your sweets, sir,” said Childermass. He had been with Mr Norrell long enough to notice not only the sweet tooth but the tendency he had to indigestion if he’d been declaiming all through dinner; little ginger biscuits soothed any momentary indisposition as long as he sipped weak tea and nibbled the biscuits gently. 

So after dinner, the three of them tried to work, starting by levitating the rain-barrel indoors and using its contents (somewhat warmed) to wash in.

"You probably were right," said Jonathan to Mr Norrell. "I think the people of Faerie use glamour or actual transformation where we make things, and they're a good deal more comfortable with outside, so if we smell like the weather it may be safer for us. When I went to the _brugh,_ there was very little lighting, and the walls and fittings were in a state of decay by our standards."

"Shouldn't be surprised if that's why they keep stealing Christians, then," said Childermass. "I felt a bit hard-done-by to be doing more of the work here for two gentry..."

Both of them indignantly protested at how much more work they were now doing round the house, but Childermass went on, "Obviously it'd be a sight harder doing for a whole _brugh,_ while they did their dancing or reciting poetry."

"I do hope we don't have to _keep_ washing in rain," said Mr Norrell morosely, shivering despite the warming-spell they'd put on it.

"We've been all right so far," said Jonathan, who had a naturally sunny outlook. "We may need more precautions just now...”

“After you offended the imps," said Mr Norrell. 

"I?" said Jonathan Strange. "What did _I_ do?"

"You filled the teapot with lavender," Childermass told him. "I could smell it, and I'm fairly sure they could."

"I was just trying to get rid of the problem for us!" Jonathan said indignantly. "Both of you usually say I'm good at inventing ways to deal with things. And you must admit I got them out of there."

"Good at invention, and good at speed," said Mr Norrell. "But you're not always as careful as needs be. I thought you'd hold them there while we decided what to do."

"And now we have a very small war on our hands," said Childermass. "If we're lucky they'll only want to make things inconvenient to us for a bit. We don't want to keep attacking them, I know that; they'll just keep coming back. So we need ways to keep safe while they make things uncomfortable."

First they tried a luck-spell. Hard to find in the repositories of English magic, which in practice meant that Jonathan Strange had to work one up from scratch, while the other two carefully pointed out where it could go wrong at every turn. 

This took a fair amount of time, especially since Mr Norrell and Childermass frequently disagreed on the necessary precautions, while Jonathan couldn't offer a deciding vote since neither caution nor practicality were among his considerable talents.

Then they did a spell on stone, using several pieces of stone, including a good flat piece for under the mattress, and some pebbles.

Stone took all of them to work, since it was obstinate. Mr Norrell was best at carefully holding the spell steady, while Jonathan had the energy to insist on what they wanted, and Childermass bespoke the spirits of place that knew the three of them belonged here.

Moonlight and water from the beck finished it. The stone to go under the mattress and make sure they wouldn't get squashed, then stone at every door-sill and pebbles hung by the windows. Good for protection.

"Moonlight, river-water, rainwater and stone," said Childermass with deep satisfaction. "I doubt they'll be able to smell us out from that, or work as much against us as they want. The nearer it feels natural to the place, the less mischief they'll be able to work."

After a cup of celebratory tea (from the New Pot), Mr Norrell was ready for the next spell. Nobody else was.

"How long have we been working?" said the other two crossly.

Mr Norrell didn't know. 

"About fourteen candlemarks altogether," said Jonathan.

"At least," said Childermass. "So we'd better go to sleep, in our nice safely-prepared bed which is the best place for dealing with whatever they do. If you fall asleep reading in the library, it'll all be a lot worse, to say nothing of us not being able to hear you from the bedroom." 

"Hearing! That's the next thing," said Mr Norrell, "spells for voices," and they put him on the sopha and gently sat on his hands sooner than let him write, cast, or turn pages.

"I'm not going to bed," he said obstinately. "When I'm worried enough I won't sleep."

"Right enough," said Childermass. "We'll just take you to bed and keep you awake."

"I'm not in the mood," said Mr Norrell. If he was upset about something he usually wasn't thinking about intimate relations.

Mr Strange, who hadn't known him carnally long enough to realise that, said, "Are you quite well? Sir?" as if somewhat concerned. 

Childermass found that amusing. "Oh, I should think we'll be able to turn his mind to it. Have you got any ideas for something he might like to try?"

"Well, I've got The Instrument," said Jonathan Strange. Arabella Strange had used an elegantly-made artificial phallus to console herself while he was away, and he'd made a facsimile out of magic and carving since their change in circumstances.

"That hardly holds the attraction of novelty," Mr Norrell complained, with a sniff. It was something he enjoyed from time to time, but it wasn't enough to take his mind off worrying, even if it was pleasing to the eye (and other parts). And it was nowhere near the virile members of either of his lovers when it came to size.

"Good thing I added a little something to it to treat you!" said Jonathan Strange.

Mr Norrell led the way to the bedroom. If Mr Strange _had_ been so kind as to provide something to take his mind off his troubles, the least he could do was to show an interest. 

Besides, the thought was sparking an agreeable curiosity which was beginning to distract him from his nerves. 

He was soon stripped and spread on the bed, hanging on to the bed-post, and being quite excessively oiled. "I do not need this amount of preparation for the Instrument," he said crossly. "I'm more experienced with both of you, and you're somewhat larger."

"I had the idea we could make you a Fucking Machine," said Jonathan.

"A what?" said Mr Norrell faintly. He had never heard of such a thing. 

"Oh aye?" said Childermass interestedly. "Well, if it's some sort of engine like they're using in the mills, we're not going to fit _that_ in his bed with him, soft lad, let alone I'm not going to let thee get steam anywhere near his nethers."

"Well, it occurred to me," said Jonathan Strange, "they only use all those things because they haven't got magic. So this is spelled to keep oiling you up from inside, rather like one of us coming in you--I'm sorry?"

"I didn't say anything," said Mr Norrell, because the involuntary noise he'd just made wasn't a word.

"Right you are," said Jonathan Strange. "And it's spelled to let you keep going as long as you like, just relentlessly powering into you until you've had enough. Although if you say 'wait' it'll pause until you say 'go'. Or you can say 'stop' and it'll gently ease out of you, or..." His voice made a promise of the suggestion. 

"Or?" echoed Mr Norrell faintly, licking his lips. 

"Or, you can say, 'more', and it'll--the magic will--get you up and ready again. There's a safety-spell against _'really_ too much,'" he added virtuously, "but short of that it'll keep pounding you, and you'll keep going. Or coming, I suppose, anyway. I thought that even if it's not quite as big as we are, that trick might make it somewhat exciting."

Mr Norrell cursed softly under his breath. 

"Did I get something wrong?" said Jonathan.

"No," said Mr Norrell. He squirmed, and felt hot all over, the way he did when he wasn't quite sure whether it was a blush of embarrassment or sheer sexual heat. They both knew he had a taste for excess, so he wouldn't bother trying to deny that. 

"It sounds such a delightful idea I don't want to wait to check it, but I know I should. Would you bring Jonathan's notes, Childermass?" he asked, and, "--you do _have_ notes, Jonathan?" he added anxiously, sitting upright.

Jonathan did indeed have notes, and after careful checking by Mr Norrell and Childermass, the device was pronounced good enough to try, and Mr Norrell got up on his knees again to present his arse for it, holding the bed-post to keep steady. 

It felt even more delicious than he would have thought, because its relentless assault was so smooth and steady, just silently working him until he was bursting-ready and a passing breeze was almost enough to bring him off. He gasped a breath, ready to ask, but they knew him: Childermass's rough thumb played with him between his balls and his thoroughly-occupied arse-hole, while Jonathan's smooth hand pulled every drop from his prick, and then he was (just) too busy coming to scream.

Ten breaths later, he was admiring the pair of them kissing. Who could have guessed that having his arse thoroughly plugged and his cock well on the way to its second stand would prove so sovereign against his occasional attacks of jealousy! Of course they were much more worth looking at than he was, but that seemed like no problem at all right now. He had them to look at, and everyone was enjoying themselves.

But... "Wait," he suggested, and the device obediently filling his arse waited. He sighed. His prick was leaking, and he hadn't been expecting to be quite this eager quite this soon.

"Would anyone like to kiss me?" he suggested hopefully. "I'm doing all right, but if anyone would..."

"I should think one of us can oblige," said Childermass, and both of them pulled Mr Norrell out of his position enough to kiss. 

They shared a long lazy kiss between the three of them. Mr Norrell only (slightly guiltily) remembered it was a matter of urgency when he asked if they wanted to go on, and squeaked when the device picked up on the word "go" and continued to fill him. He was so wet with its perverse and excessive manner of lubricating him, he was trying not to move too much in case of incriminating squelching.

What a fine pair of handsome men--all for him to enjoy, he decided, and settled down to watch, as Jonathan settled down to work on Childermass again, fondling his bum in a way that Mr Norrell did not even remember to be jealous of. 

"Between your thighs, I think," said Childermass. "Then I can get the benefit of you doing that while I work away."

Mr Norrell moaned. It wasn't easy to concentrate on watching--he was practically being fucked cross-eyed (however mechanically)--but it was his duty, he told himself, to pay attention. He might even get to answer a very long-standing question (so to speak) and work out who was larger. Not that he had any complaints in that department. 

Jonathan was so handsome! And Childermass looked very well as well--not as dazzling, perhaps, but he had that intensity to the way he looked. Mr Norrell had almost not taken him on, afraid that there might be some sort of unfortunate scene if he approached Childermass and Childermass proved unwilling, but things had turned out excellently!

"I am so very lucky," Gilbert Norrell said quietly.

"Well of course you are, you've got us," said Jonathan cheerfully. "And Childermass is going to slip between my thighs, and the two of us are going to make a start on catching up with you. He's nearly as big as I am," he added breathlessly. 

Mr Norrell moaned. He couldn't see as much as he'd like with the pair of them going at it that way, but Jonathan having his thighs ravaged was already becoming one of his favourite parts of the day, just from thinking of it. 

He began to pant, imagining it, except he _wasn't_ imagining it: Childermass was giving the sort of shameless, deep grunts that left nothing to the imagination, shuddering to a halt, and Jonathan had clearly been enjoying it as well. 

Mr Norrell whined, not quite happily.

"Mm?" said Jonathan obligingly. 

Mr Norrell forgot how to be diplomatic. He forgot how to think. He forgot how to phrase. 

He managed, _“Fuck!”_ and the snarled word trailed into a shocked, delighted groan as he realised that "fuck" must be another word Jonathan had taught it: suddenly somehow the spell had knocked him flat on his belly on the bed, no more kneeling up, and the device was pounding him with rougher strokes, and as it fucked fiercely into him his prick rubbed on the sheet and erupted. 

"How is it," said Childermass, "that try how we might to catch up, he's still ahead?"

Mr Norrell lay there in a sore, exhausted but distinctly sated heap. "I blame the device," he said, with a yawn. "Jonathan knows exactly what I like, and he made it do it. I'm entirely at your service for kissing and cuddling, though."

"Sure you don't want more?"

"No more-- _Jonathan!"_ he wailed, thinking accusingly _You knew it would do that!_ as the thing started again and he helplessly rocked back into the steady strokes. 

"Well, I certainly didn't think you'd be so silly as to use the word 'more' if you didn't want to _have_ any more," said Jonathan reasonably. "I can't read your mind."

"I'm (...blast it!...) having...some...difficulty," gasped Mr Norrell, between strokes, feeling the thing would have practically obliterated him if it had started again with the harder pace. 

"Are you really?" said Jonathan Strange. "I took the trouble to give the oil some healing properties so you wouldn't get sore, so it's really up to you what you do. I certainly won't stop you stopping if you want to, and I could really do with something myself by now," he added, a little plaintively. 

Mr Norrell remembered that he had had two, and Childermass had had one. Leaving poor Jonathan out--and poor Jonathan always liked the thought of him, Mr Norrell, doing it to excess. He gasped, "Sorry!" but his hips kept working the stroke, and he was beginning to wonder if he'd ever stop.

Suddenly, a firm hand came down on the device as it filled him, and a voice--not his--said, "Stop!"

It stopped, and Jonathan drew it out of him. He wailed, but it did not return even when he said, "More!" (meaning it this time).

"No more," said Jonathan firmly, "you little tart!"

"Have a heart," said Childermass. "You know he can't think straight when he's like that."

"Well, considering the state _I'm_ in by now," said Jonathan, "he's going to have it on my prick or not at all."

Mr Norrell was beyond coherent verbal reply again, but managed to express a strongly-affirmative response to this. 

Jonathan's prick, larger and hotter and much better than what he had just been enjoying, filled his thoroughly-stretched hole, magnificently human after the unvarying assault of the Instrument. He tried to hold on a bit, just to savour it, thought it might take a few minutes for him to come to the boil without a hand in front, but his greedy inner flesh clamped on it, a proper man's cock after all that practice, and he _went,_ almost screaming. Collapsed, feeling Jonathan come in him. 

It was decadent and embarrassing and _still slightly arousing_ to feel so much thick oozing liquid still in him when Jonathan carefully eased free of him. He made a disgraceful moan, and tried to hump up a bit without anyone noticing. 

Childermass said interestedly, "I wonder?"

"Mm?" said Jonathan. 

"Gilbert?" said Childermass, "do you think you could, if I licked you clean? I mean, I shan't do it if you've gone your limit, but if you'd actually enjoy it?"

Gilbert Norrell said, "Mm," in the manner of somebody who certainly wouldn't mind trying (as long as someone else did the work). He moved his hand under just a little, not so much frigging himself as resting his sensitive prick gently in his hand. 

Childermass made sure he was open, and began to work his rough, impertinent thumb in where Gilbert had been so thoroughly used by one man and one magico-mechanical device. Just a few strokes, making sure the thick liquid was well-spread in him, and then he dipped his head to it. Then that familiar mouth sucked and licked for a few moments, and he moaned with mingled relief and pleasure and mild discomfort as he came off for the fourth time in rather-too-quick succession.

He was asleep in seconds, although he'd have thought that the ominous threat of the next day would oppress him.


	2. Chapter 2

Mr Norrell wriggled. Something was wrong. Normally, he'd wake up comfortably in the embrace of _someone,_ if not both. Normally, he'd wake up in his lovely warm bed, anyway, and if he moved, ever so slightly, he'd feel his nice warm blankets and whichever of them was on that side of him.

Something was definitely wrong. What was on top of him felt like coarse sacking, and quite a lot of it. Coarse sacking filled with something too heavy for him to move, like furniture. But why would anyone have put such a thing in his bed? He trusted them, even though he tried to jerk free of it and remained in place, listening to a rumble of thunder.

He'd got up to relieve himself in the "night"; that was the last thing he remembered. Both of them were cuddling, and deeply asleep, when he got back, so he ended up on the outside. But that would have left him a bit chilly, but still where he expected to be.

Not wherever here was. But the apparent rumble of thunder was...not coming closer, but as he let it go on without really listening, almost resolving into something that sounded like...voices.

He cast a vocal clarification and adjustment spell so that he could hear it properly without it hurting his ears. He had that ready to his mind and tongue since he had such difficulty with distinguishing sounds against other sounds: he had used it frequently at least since he had been obliged to visit the House. Politicians did not speak clearly and in order. 

“Dammit, it’s Gilbert!” said one. 

“Of fucking course, it would be,” agreed Childermass. "I bet the little sod's gone to the library and we won't be able to find him."

Mr Norrell did his best to shout, "It's me. Here!" at the top of his voice, except he couldn't seem to _find_ the top of his voice by the echo and he had no idea where here was, or how they all got here. 

Jonathan Strange was apparently all for darting off all over the place in search of him, and Mr Norrell snapped "Typical!" because that was his dear Mr Strange all over, not doing a careful check of the surroundings.

“Let’s have a look-about before you go on one of your expeditions,” said Childermass.

Suddenly there was a flood of light and cold, and he yelped. The light was only their customary lantern, and the cold was being free of the mountain on top of him, which proved to be... the pillow.

Mr Norrell was glad that he'd thought to normalise the sounds of their voices, which he rather thought were loud with incredulity. 

Mr Norrell made a number of impatient gestures to convey bringing him towards their ears, because adding the spell he already knew that was on his ears would be much simpler and quicker than trying to work out a new spell of vocal amplification on his own, since he never had.

It needed words and gestures, but no actual materials, which was useful. 

After shouting into Childermass's ear for a few minutes explaining this, he did so.

He had to adjust the spell on Jonathan: a younger man's hearing was so much clearer than his it sounded as though he were shouting. 

Soon enough, they could continue conversation. The first point to make clear was his objection to their cutting-short his preparations the night before. “I even mentioned voices,” he reproached them. “I should say we’re lamentably unprepared. I don’t even think we put the stone in the bed last night, due to a momentary inattention.”

“I thought _you’d_ be too fucked-out and _you_ wouldn’t have the sense,” said Childermass, “so I did it.”

“Well, thank you, Childermass,” said Mr Norrell.

“All right, let’s get this straight,” said Jonathan. “It was our fault entirely, and nothing at all to do with your interest in this.” He displayed an impressive erection. 

Mr Norrell gulped, but said, “What?”

“What! _What?!”_ yelped Jonathan indignantly. “You recognised it last night!”

“If he’s that much smaller, you’ve gone from arm’s length to walking distance,” said Childermass.

Mr Norrell did not point out that Mr Strange’s organ was now of positively architectural proportions, and he was soon lifted in an immense hand and conveyed to its vicinity. 

“Can you see it now?” said Jonathan. 

Mr Norrell stepped neatly from hand to inner thigh, and went to make his introductions to the beast. 

Mr Norrell was very dimly aware of Childermass saying, “Well, fancy that! I think he can see it now, Jonathan,” as he settled happily into its shade, nuzzling and biting and taking two-fisted grips of the loose skin—which proved to be the first really smooth thing he’d felt in this new world. He wrapped his legs right round Jonathan’s prick—it was getting wetter now, which felt very good indeed—and rocked himself back and forth. It was not only extremely wet and hard, but actually very hot to a person who had been suffering from the chilly room. All this felt very good for him, but presumably less noticeable for Jonathan. He managed to gasp out a spell for limberness and strength that he used about the library. It was stronger and stronger, and then he had heels and hands clamped onto the object of his attentions, his thighs burning, and he thrashed his body against it. He kept going as long as he could--didn't even have time to make a sound--as the earthquake hit and jerked and rolled under him and through him; somehow he fell off, he was wet through, it was up to his knees, in his _hair_ even, how had he managed to (he yawned) do that? 

“Well, we’ve established that experiment in natural philosophy,” said Childermass. “Jonathan, will you put him somewhere safe?”

There was a pause as Jonathan deposited him gently on the bed. 

"You all right down there?" called Jonathan breathlessly. "Did you finish, it's hard to tell when you're that size?"

Gilbert Norrell yawned. 

"He's fine," said Childermass. "You don't get him nodding off like that unless he's had a good time. Especially not if he's wet and filthy." Childermass cast something to get him clean and dry, which was a considerable relief. 

Norrell tried to make a neat little nest among the bed-clothes, round and round again.

"You look like my cousin's cat trying to tread the bed down," said Jonathan. 

"Can't seem to get comfortable," said Mr Norrell, "which is a wonder considering how much I'd like to go to sleep."

It was Childermass who pointed out that if one was that much smaller the sheets and blankets would be that much _coarser._ "I'd suggest a dolls' house, except none of us knows a rich person with children who might have a disused one." Mr Norrell could have wept. He was so tired, and he doubted he was in a fit state to cast anything he didn't know by heart. He could manage spells he was accustomed to without too much stress or looking-up, but he was accustomed to relying on his dear Mr Strange for inventive genius. 

For once, it was Jonathan Strange who came up with a practical solution. They'd all stowed plenty of handkerchiefs about the place in case of needing to mop up after intimate activities, and the ones belonging to Mr Strange were a gift from a cousin, of a very dainty weave. He provided one as an inner-sheet, and a soft rag round that as a blanket, so that Mr Norrell was soon tucked up safe and warm in a small wooden box, with the bespelled "safety" pebble at his feet. He yawned again. 

He hadn't slept as long as he'd expected, when he woke up

"Excuse me! Both of you!" he shouted, and eventually got their attention. 

"If you want another go, you can wait like the rest of us," said Jonathan, who appeared to have got hold of the impression that Mr Norrell had a one-track mind. 

"I'm sure I can't imagine what you're talking about," said Mr Norrell accordingly, with a sniff, "but I really am horribly hungry and I have no clothes in my size."

"Why don't they go with you?" asked Jonathan. "The clothes, I mean."

"Rather obviously," said Mr Norrell, "they're not permitting us to keep many of our things, because then we would not even be inconvenienced. So since we have bespelled the bed, and perhaps because they are not trying to cause real damage, we are either normally-sized or some safely-manageable size when the spell starts each day. I presume I was under the corner of the pillow, and not drowning in my own nightshirt or falling off the bed breaking my neck, because we're essentially safe." 

First they tried shrinking his clothes, which didn't work, which left Jonathan's handkerchiefs. Unfortunately, these were excessively colourful (Mr Norrell was not especially keen to try something like a toga in the imperial purple), but at least the purple garment was warm, not too scratchy, and Jonathan managed to get a spell to make it hold together. 

They arranged an odd sort of travelling-basket for Mr Norrell, that Childermass held in his hand. Mr Norrell waited to step into it, muttering a spell against nausea (being held gently in a hand was one thing, but the extra magnified movement of Childermass's walking gait would be far stronger). Given his sometimes-tricky stomach, he could remember the spell without checking the book, and given the swooping-about feeling he'd get being swung about in someone's hand, he might need it. Meanwhile, Childermass and Mr Strange worked on casting to keep the basket safe, so it wouldn't knock against anything or fall.

The kitchen was too cold when they came down in the mornings, which was even worse now.

It was difficult to figure out what to eat at this point. Gruel was mysteriously detestable: something about the flavour or the consistency was quite wrong in his current situation, although he would previously have considered it the perfect food if he was going through a tricky situation. Everyone found this frustrating: surely such a simple, soft dish would be manageable? But no. Every time they approached him with a little on a spoon he complained. Toast proved tough, even more than before. Jam proved delightful, as long as they strained it, but Childermass pointed out it would be all wrong for his digestion to live on jam.

Mr Norrell sulked. He might admit to Childermass, very occasionally and privately, that he had occasional difficulties, but that didn't mean he wanted the question brought up in front of his young charming lover, who had never seen him with anything like that. _Jonathan_ wouldn't get anything like that, he thought pettishly: Jonathan had had an easy road through life being charming and adored and handsome, with all the gifts he himself had never had. Including eating whatever he liked, or whatever was around, without feeling ill or having troubles with his digestion. 

"You don't need to look like a wet weekend just because I'm being practical, sir," said Childermass. 

"We can't see his face with him looking down," said Jonathan. 

"Don't need to. Are you or are you not thinking about Jonathan having all the gifts fate can provide, like good looks and an easy digestion, Gilbert?"

Gilbert looked up and smiled reluctantly. "Maybe." Perhaps there was something to be said for his other lover knowing him very well and _not minding_ that he wasn't perfect.

"Ha!" said Jonathan. "Neither of you've gone off your head, and that's far more embarrassing. And disgusting, if one might be prepared to swallow a dead mouse to achieve it."

"How on earth!" exclaimed Mr Norrell, who would have _heaved_ if he'd made the slightest attempt at such a thing.

If it were possible, Mr Norrell fell even more deeply in love with Jonathan Strange as he told the story, with the liveliest of wit: "I found myself in need of speaking to a Fairy about Arabella," Jonathan said. “As it happened, I had once met someone else who was not a magician who could see fairies--with the trifling disadvantage that he was quite mad--which had led me to think about the possibility of increasing my magical prowess by means of insanity. 

Anyway, there was a certain lady in Italy, a great lover of cats, who had run utterly mad, so I went to see her. She was about to swallow a dead mouse, and the thing--well, horrible though it was, it reeked of magic. I cast, in the hope I could get nearer to her and her madness, but to my astonishment she changed into a cat! So I took the dead mouse and I tried to swallow it, felt the magic appear to take me...And really, my dear fellows, I now consider it the greatest stroke of good fortune that I fell down in a swoon when I tried! For with her magic flying about the room, and all those cats, I might have been in some danger of being transformed into a cat!"

"Heaven forfend!" murmured Mr Norrell.

"Having thought better of it, I transformed the defunct rodent into a tincture the next day, and swallowed a little of that. It was not as repulsive, and permitted me to adjust for a little madness at a time."

There was a silence. 

"Did it transform parts of you into parts of a cat?" asked Mr Norrell, a little worriedly.

Over the past couple of days exactly none of the parts of Mr Strange he had made himself familiar with had been at all cat-adjacent, but one could never be too careful.

"No," said Mr Strange more cheerfully. "In fact that's a d--n-good question that casts some light on our different magical styles. I think it would be fair to say that I improvise while you proceed by careful study, my dear sir?"

Mr Norrell agreed. 

"Well, I think there's a good reason why all magicians get such very different results, and part of it is intent. You believe all your spells work according to principles like reason, natural law and natural philosophy, yes?"

Mr Norrell nodded, and said, "I believe that magic should make sense, yes."

"On the other hand, I believe that magic is a matter of will. We magicians impose our will on others, or on nature, but sometimes it comes right back at us, as you'd notice if you'd been fool enough to cast on some unfortunate war-dead simply because your general asked you to. And before I knew what I was doing, I managed quite a bit with a couple of spells, and a little book about the Raven King, and making one up about the mirror-writing."

"And I'm betwixt-and-between," said Childermass. "Caution can get you out of as many messes as _not dithering."_

"I don't dither," muttered Norrell, who was privately of the opinion that there was a place for "betwixt-and-between", and out of bed and in clothes wasn't it. 

"Anyway, what this is leading up to is that different magicians can get different results using the same materiel, or even the same spell," said Jonathan, with that charming enthusiasm he had. "Because it _means something different_ to both of them. So to me the dead mouse was incontrovertibly "insanity"; after all, what else could it mean? To the lady, it was the last move in her journey to join her dearest companions, the cats. So both of us used it for those reasons."

"So it did just make you a little bit mad?" asked Mr Norrell, to reassure himself. 

There was more silence. 

"Did I say something wrong?" asked Mr Norrell, meaning, _why did I say something wrong?_ and _how can I not next time?_

"Yes," said his lovers. 

Mr Norrell waited for them to explain. Into the silence, he said, "I'm sorry."

Jonathan said, "You've noticed I like talking? I like people, I'll chatter away to most. I like telling stories and I can turn them against myself to be funny."

"As I don't, I suppose," said Mr Norrell, feeling in the wrong again and hating it. 

"Well, yes, but what I _mean_ is, try to notice the few types of occasion where I shut up. If I shut up where I'd naturally rattle away, it's not usually because I simply have nothing to say."

Mr Norrell listened sadly to his stomach complaining, and worked away at the question. After a while, he said, "Your wife, then. You don't just not mention her because you're too busy to think of her? And you'll talk up to the point where you went mad, because it's funny that far but no further."

Childermass leaned down and said, "Very well done, sir," quietly, as he did when Mr Norrell had thought something out and got it right. Mr Norrell glowed warmly: heartfelt praise from Childermass wasn't a common commodity. 

"Except you _did_ tell me before, Jonathan," he said. "I remember quite clearly a long conversation about pineapples."

Jonathan sighed. "I had a horror of pineapples, for some reason, but that was easier to mention as I could make it a funny story and it was no less irrational than your fear of mice."

"I do not have an irrational fear of mice!" snapped Mr Norrell. "Can you imagine what those animals could do to a library?"

Now Jonathan put a fingertip lightly on his shoulder for a moment. "I do not mean you don't deserve to have your own oddities, like any of us, Sir." He paused. "But that seemed an ordinary foible, although I still don't like to think of the things. Where I stop talking is _candles in people's heads._ Even when I was restored to my wits, it always seemed that I could just turn my head, alter my gaze somewhat, and I would see the things again. As if our sanity, our life itself, is poised and ready to gutter out at the lightest breeze.” He shuddered deeply, so Childermass gave him a reassuring hug--and Mr Norrell demanded to be lifted to do the same to one of his fingers.

"But I am still so very hungry," said Mr Norrell rather pathetically after a while.

Having failed with gruel, they tried shrinking what he would normally eat, but that didn't work any more than shrinking his clothes. Unfortunately, the imps appeared to have counteracted the most obvious spells, like simply making things small enough for him to use them. Either that, or those unpracticed spells were difficult to cast.

At last, Jonathan worked up a chopping-spell and cut part of a potato and part of a carrot and part of an onion very fine. Cooked into a good beef broth, with a few little pieces of bread to soak in the flavour, this mixture smelt wonderful. With the use of Mr Norrell's best long-handled small measuring-spoon, carefully-protected against noxious influences or breaking, this made an excellent and delicious stew. 

He didn't even complain about having to lean his elbows on the rim of the bowl and reach down, although after a while, the others took turns helping him lift the spoon.

Once he had a comfortably-full belly, he was too tired to go about his studies, and asked if they could bring his bed down. They put the spare stew in a little dish in a cold part of the larder which was good at keeping things fresh. 

Soon, the pair of them were working in the library, with a nicely-crackling fire to take the chill off, and he was settling in his bed on the desk, drowsily listening to his lovers cracking jokes about, "Obviously, the last few hours took a lot out of him," and, "O, do you really think so, I thought we put a lot into him!" If he didn't feel so comfortable, he'd get up and object to them disrespecting him, but he didn't feel up to standing on dignity when he'd just had a good meal and there was nothing making him miserable.

When he felt more up to showing an interest, he asked if someone could pass him the book _On the Manner & Kynde of Diuerse Faeries,_ and he would get on with his researches. 

"Now, how should I do that?" Childermass asked reasonably. "You would be in great danger of the book crushing you, let alone you've no means of navigating the text or turning the pages. Unless you take up mountain-climbing."

The three of them silently contemplated the thought of Mr Norrell, Alpinist.

Mr Norrell, who had momentarily forgotten his condition in the excitement of getting back to work, sighed. "Then, if I am to be useless, I'd be obliged to you to continue your work."

"Not useless," Jonathan said. "You're just under a certain amount of strain at the moment. _We_ can help _you_ , and _you_ can help _us."_

So they set to work. Mr Norrell did not like not being able to read his books, although he supposed being able to direct the other men's studies was something to do, and perhaps they didn't particularly enjoy having him explain where all the books were. Really, it was the simplest system! A child could understand it. And he was explaining it perfectly clearly, as they should both be able to tell. Much of the work was on a "reliability" axis, counting from the greatest work of Francis Sutton-Grove at one end to...

"Which is the other end, sir?" said Childermass. "Because you don't have a particularly high view of Belasis...or Ormskirk...or Harpaster...or Pevensey..."

"Or indeed the other work by Francis Sutton-Grove, which you consider 'abominable,'" added Jonathan Strange. "So as far as I can see the axis looks like this." He sketched out a square book cover on the near wall in bright golden lines of light. "With the _De Generibus Artium..._ just there in pride of place at the first position."

Mr Norrell nodded. 

Jonathan Strange continued, "And"--he quickly ran to the opposite wall, trailing a similar line of fire after his hand through the air--"here we have..." He busily covered the wall with many, many jostling golden squares for book covers--"all those other books, and in pride of place, gentlemen, in very pride of place, _Prescriptions and Descriptions,_ by Francis Sutton-Grove himself."

Mr Norrell compressed his lips crossly. Realising Mr Strange was probably unable to see that, he said, "It is unkind in you to mock me, sir." 

"Then I am sorry for it," said Jonathan Strange. "It is only that we magicians have such presumptions to accuracy. I am quite as bad haring off after ideas, and perhaps it is a spirit of luck as much as my talent which has preserved me in life so far." 

_Dear Jonathan is so generous!_ he thought, as they went back to work, alas without much luck at finding the books he was looking for. 

Eventually he gave up in disgust and sat crossly back down on the desk. Being this size, he could not even read any of the odd books the Raven King had favoured them with as well as books of magic—novels and books of tales, some of the strangest kind, that the others diverted themselves with when not doing magic. He had every intention of sulking pettishly for the rest of the time (in the library! what a missed opportunity!) but he found himself distracted by the excellent view, what with Jonathan's firm bottom in those particularly closely-fitting breeches, and Childermass's fine muscles as he reached a book down. Much more entertaining. After a while, Jonathan said, "Do you think Gilbert's getting tired of explaining it, Childermass? Ha, I see he might be!" he added with a shout of laughter as he turned round. 

“Well, I wouldn’t be!” snapped Mr Norrell (pulling his toga down and hastily removing his hand from what it had been doing). "Except there you are, and we can’t do the work, and you don’t seem to be paying attention when I explain perfectly clearly where that book is, so it is small wonder I got distracted by the view.” He paused. “Which is your fault entirely!”

Childermass grinned. “Well, I suppose, knowing Jonathan, he won’t mind if we take ten minutes’ break for a cup of tea."

“Oh, not in the slightest, my dear fellow!” said Jonathan amiably. “I was just about to get tired of book-searching myself.”

Soon Mr Norrell was perched in his travelling basket.

Mr Norrell looked at the walls nervously for signs of mice, which would be utterly unbearable at this size, but found none. He was surprised at the lurch of the staircase: "I thought you said we were going for tea," he said. 

"Yes, but which would you prefer, a cup of tea or..." Childermass paused, "a 'cup of tea,'" he suggested with an audible leer.

"Oh, is that what we're calling it now?" said Jonathan. "Well, I had the last 'cup', in that sense, so it's your turn."

Soon, they were in the bedroom. Mr Norrell watched happily as both of them stripped, making them do it where he got the best view. 

"Do we want Gilbert to 'pour the tea'?" said Jonathan. 

"Well, we want him in the bed, where we have all those safety-spells in case anyone might get hurt, said Childermass. 

"Mm," said Gilbert. 

They ended up with a form of intimacy that as far as Gilbert Norrell knew had no name and as far as he would have decided in his right mind was _absolutely terrifying:_ two men happily frotting together on the bed, while another man approximately nearly the height of one of their pricks nestled between their legs where they were joined and wriggled frantically on whatever he could reach. It was extremely undignified, and the musky smell of them sent him giddy.

When he started to complain he kept losing his footing, Childermass said, "Jonathan? Could you give me a moment with him?"

"Certainly, it is your turn," said Jonathan. "Keep still a moment, Gilbert." 

Gilbert Norrell obediently lay down to wait, and soon there he was with Childermass, who reached a hand down. Immense but precise fingers clasped very carefully around Gilbert's middle, and after a couple of minutes Mr Norrell realised he was being gently moved up and down another man's prick, as if his entire body was a toy being slid and stroked where it would give someone else the most pleasure. He didn't care about himself; he was a mere object, as sleek and inconsequential as a silk handkerchief being pressed over Childermass. Like the Instrument, if considerably less vigorous. He forgot his own pleasure--he was fairly sure he forgot his own _existence_ \--as he heard and felt Childermass groan and move. 

Mr Norrell, for the first time in his life, succumbed to an exquisite crisis of altruism. As the last shuddering wave of it broke over him, he actually blacked out. 

When he woke up, Childermass's impressive erection had subsided, so he complained sleepily about Childermass not keeping it for him to admire. 

"Hard enough work managing it without either drowning or crushing you, sir," said Childermass imperturbably. "And you certainly seemed to enjoy it as much as I did at the time, or do you think you passed out from boredom?"

Mr Norrell said, "As far as I can tell, I was merely appreciating your enjoyment. Is it so hard to believe I might simply have been forgetting my own feelings as I thought of yours?"

"Yes," said Childermass baldly.

Mr Norrell yawned. "I am glad you did enjoy yourself," he said. "Jonathan, would you like to?"

"I took care of myself watching Childermass sweep you away like a leaf in the wind," said Jonathan, from an armchair, "and you _did_ enjoy it, Gilbert."

"I doubt you saw much considering my unfortunate minuteness," said Mr Norrell, "so I'm not sure what makes you two so certain I liked it,” he added, accustomed to argument even when feeling comfortable, which he did. 

"Your body is smaller, but you adjusted the spell for us hearing your voice quite well," said Jonathan. "We're both well-accustomed to the sound of you enjoying yourself."

"Ah," said Mr Norrell, who had in fact forgotten that. "Very well, then. I must say I rather wish I remembered it, but as long as I didn't miss anything."

"Cup of _actual_ tea?" suggested Jonathan, after a while. 

They went and busied themselves with tea production. 

Jonathan used his Spell of Boiling on the big jug of water, which was much less half-hearted than anybody else's, Mr Norrell thought. He had to admit it perhaps made for a better brew, but it was much more likely to spill. 

Childermass carefully put the tea in the New Pot to brew, adjusting taste and temperature, and went to get milk from the cold spot in the pantry.

"Really, the tea-pot might not be worth all this trouble," said Mr Norrell, "but it's already not boiled over or leaked at the spout, so it's probably a superior effort to the last one."

Childermass and Jonathan Strange made their cups: Childermass had strong tea you could stand a spoon up in, while Jonathan had smoother sweeter tea. 

Childermass got an old thimble out of a drawer where it was doing nobody any good. He filled it carefully with a mixture of milk and hot water, then added a few grains of sugar and exactly three drops of strong tea. Mr Norrell complained slightly at having to lift such a large cup with no handle, but pronounced the tea excellent. 

"Who'd have guessed it'd be _easier_ to make you tea this way?" muttered Childermass, who frequently complained of hating to have to get the tea weak enough. 

"Could we get back to work now?" asked Mr Norrell, when they'd all finished. 

It turned out that Jonathan Strange was actually _right_ about something. If one distracted oneself from work, quite often things came back to mind. In fact, after the vigorous bout of amatory practices and the nice cup of tea, he managed to explain where to find _On the Manner & Kynde of Diuerse Faeries._

Mr Norrell had been right, too. As he had suggested, a book on the different behaviour of different types of Faeries was useful. The little imps seemed (if a definite nuisance) at least rather less vicious than the Christian-sized creatures they had met before, which was cheering. The Gentleman with the Thistledown Hair had played for keeps, with no apparent desire to give anything back to the Christians. These imps did not appear to have as dreadful designs.

His lovers complained horribly over simple study. Even Mr Norrell was not quite sure--some of Jonathan's best effects had been _ex tempore._ He wished, guiltily and frustratedly, that he was of a size to help as he normally would.


	3. Chapter 3

Mr Norrell hoped it would all be over the next day. Well, they woke up the same size, which was a promising start. The magic had retrieved Mr Norrell from his tiny box of a bed and returned him to normal: either the imps had a less-than-dreadful intention for them or the safety-spells were working.

However, he'd missed his proper breakfast yesterday (however pleasant the beef broth was, he liked his settled habits, and one of them was a bowl of slightly-sweetened gruel in the morning). 

After a bit of pinching and nudging, he suggested that Childermass make him breakfast.

Childermass said, "You do remember I'm not your servant any more?"

He nudged Jonathan, slightly more gently, and said, "Childermass isn't making me breakfast."

Jonathan said, "I thought we'd sorted out about meals."

"That was the proper evening meal," said Mr Norrell. "We also established, if you remember, that if I had had a difficult day, people might help me. Anyway," he added cunningly, "only one of you need do it. The other one can keep me warm in bed until it's ready." (They could certainly manage to fuck _or_ cuddle, even if there wouldn't be time for both, he decided). 

"Well, you certainly don't get both snuggling _and_ your breakfast done for you," said Childermass, "because that would be spoilt. Come on, Jonathan, let's go and get breakfast. _You,"_ \--he kissed Gilbert's nose--"come down in five minutes."

Jonathan and Childermass put their feet on the floor without problem. 

Unfortunately, as they stood up, free from the protective spells in the bed, they surged into giant form. 

Evidently their normal size was merely to save them all from anything too drastic if they woke up at giant size. 

Mr Norrell gave a smothered shriek (which undignified noise he would deny ever having made) as they loomed over him. Luckily, what with the protective spells, and perhaps the imps not trying to damage them, and the imps almost certainly finding it difficult to enlarge creatures who were already so enormous from their point of view—Childermass and Jonathan Strange weren’t turned into eighty-foot high monsters who were liable to break their house, and their lover, and their furniture, and be unable to read books, and lack enough food to sustain their newly-immense frames, but simply twice as big. 

He swore softly to himself. Wonderful. Now he would have to make his own breakfast _and_ miss a pleasant diversion, just when he could do with a bit of being fussed-over.

"It was daft of me not to realise, what with that verse, if both of us left the bed at once we'd both change," said Childermass. "And it's got him looking as if he's dropped a shilling and found tuppence, because he won't have either one of us to attend to him."

"Nothing of the sort," said Mr Norrell mendaciously. "I can get on with work." He had definitely missed work and properly-fitting clothes the previous day. 

He dressed, and helped the others make some spare bedclothes into togas, and then headed forward--a little nervous that the stairs creaked alarmingly at first under their feet, but soon realising Hurtfew's excellent workmanship--although the pair of them were sadly discommoded by the doorways. 

In the library, he completely forgot about everything else in chasing up a spell. 

"He used to _at least_ not starve us," said Childermass pointedly. “Even when he had a houseful of servants, he didn’t leave them without meals."

"Eh--ah, my apologies, I was trying to find a contrivance to save your heads from doorways, and even Sutton-Grove has remarkably little to the point, although it is a completely safe spell, at least in theory.”

Regretfully, Mr Norrell gently patted the book he was currently scanning, and left it on the desk.

He followed the others to the kitchen.

Using the loaves from the larder split right through and toasted by the fire to make rolls, the larger pair had a reasonable breakfast, and Mr Norrell, of course, made his gruel.

After the meal, while the others were washing up (and complaining about the gruel saucepan, which was never easy to clean) Mr Norrell went to the larder and said, “Sir? Please?”

There was a sense of attention.

“I don’t want to starve them, you see. I know we’re provided-for, but now the two of them are twice as big. Really twice as big. We normally have a sensible amount of food for us, but I don’t know what I can do if we run out. Because we’re somewhat cut off, and even if we can get in touch with a Faery we don’t have good relations with Faerykind in general, so I doubt we can trade much—did you see what happened with the tea-pot?”

He paused hopefully.

A glossy black feather fluttered down and landed by the remaining loaf, some chicken-bones, and the now sadly-diminished remains of the stew.

None of this looked exactly promising. Either the Raven King’s attention was elsewhere—which was perfectly likely—or, as sometimes before, he preferred them to use whatever skill they had to solve problems they met.

“I regret to announce, gentlemen,” he said, returning to the table, “that I tried to bespeak the Raven King from the larder and ask if our food could be improved, or given with a more generous hand, but all I got was this feather.”

Childermass sighed. “That’s about what he'd say if he wants someone to use their good sense to get out of a problem, rather than asking him.”

“I have an idea,” said Jonathan Strange thoughtfully. “I think we should try for a spell to send a letter to the person most friendly to Christians that can be found around here.”

So they went back to the library. 

Both Childermass and Jonathan worked on dictating the letter. Mr Norrell was good at writing letters, but only the subtly-disobliging and unfriendly kind, not the sort that wanted a cheerful response and if possible practical help. The other two were much better at writing proper letters, but he would not like them to have to use quill, ink and paper in their condition—still less, leaning on the table.

“Dear Sir

“Finding ourselves temporarily discommoded by a Spell, we Three English Magicians have need to solve a small (and occasionally large) Problem. We have no wish to visit and disturb you in this condition, and we solemnly pledge we have no untoward Intent towards you or any in your _brugh._ We have no particular Wish currently to visit either Yourselves or Christendom, since we are content with our studies.

We shall leave a clean Vessel of Water to shew our faces if you choose, and subscribe ourselves your Servants, Sir:

JOHN CHILDERMASS  
JONATHAN STRANGE  
GILBERT NORRELL 

"Do I really need to be last?" asked Mr Norrell.

"Yes," said the other two. "You managed to annoy the Lord of at least one _brugh_ so much that there's no harm in hinting you're under our control, even if we've done our best to choose someone that's not like him."

The Third English Magician sighed. "Maybe people will forget that I was once the First English Magician," he said.

"Well, _we're_ in no danger of forgetting that, any road!" said Childermass, and gave him a careful hug. 

Sending the letter was a puzzle, but when they gave up on the idea of birds (which could be reporting to who-knew-whom, or in the case of corvids to they-knew-very-well-whom-but-he'd-suggested-they-use-some-ingenuity), or bees (when Mr Norrell tried asking them, one of them stung him), Jonathan Strange came up with one of his ingenious ideas.

"Gentlemen! I'd bet that the _winds_ are neutral! The most difficult part will be suggesting that they hold on to the letter."

It was four candlemarks' work to get a sufficiently-determined spell to work with wind. Mr Norrell did most of that, since he liked to work things exactly.

Then Mr Norrell cast for some kind of way to choose where they would find a sympathetic Christian soul--always assuming they could find one! The vessel of clean water was carefully prepared and strewn with a few leaves to suggest the wind, until it began stirring softly as if with light, restless winds. A tiny light sprung up, like a star barely seen through clouds, and Jonathan Strange said, "There!"

Childermass swiftly stepped up to the window and opened it.

The letter rocked quickly in the breeze, as (Mr Norrell assumed) the late-autumn wind took it in its quick, chill fingers. A moment later, it was out.

Mr Norrell shivered, and said, "Did you _have_ to let that draught in?"

Mr Strange said, "It's October, and the place is south of here. Which gives us Boreas the north wind as the most powerful, coming down with the winter.”

The water was still in the vessel on the desk, but after a while, a figure drew near through the darkness. It was a darker figure than they expected.

Mr Norrell was just beginning to wonder how they could communicate when the figure in the image gestured gracefully at them, and said, "Speak!" perfectly clearly.

“Well!” said Mr Norrell.

“Good morning, if it’s morning,” said Mr Strange.

“Good afternoon, if it’s afternoon!” said Childermass cheerfully. “I believe we know…” he squinted, “Your Majesty,” he added carefully.

The crowned figure inclined his head. “You knew me as an English servant,” he said. “That time is past.”

“But you’re—!” said Mr Norrell, about to say _But you're Sir Walter's butler!_

Childermass very carefully nudged his foot, and he muffled an exclamation of slight pain, very glad that Childermass had thought to moderate stamping on his foot to persuade him to be diplomatic, a thing which he had sometimes done.

“I was Sir Walter Pole’s butler,” said the man—the only well-disposed Christian in the vicinity— “Before that, I was a nameless slave, although Sir Walter did give me my freedom. A certain person offered me all sorts of honours I was neither entitled to nor wanted, like the Crown of His Majesty King George. But when that person died—and I took part in his necessary death, though I did not seek to murder him—those in his _brugh_ told me that fairies often prosper, and are certainly better-ruled and more cleanly, under the rule of Christian men.” He spoke as though he rather relished the challenge than otherwise, and waved around him to show how it looked.

“I am extremely glad for you, Sir!” said Jonathan Strange. “I can already see how well-lit and clean you have made—Hope-Regained, is it?”

“Something like that,” said the King, with a slight smile. “I believe I can see the problem you have brought to me.”

“We have what Childermass insists on calling ‘a very small war’ on our hands,” said Mr Norrell ruefully. “All we did was buy a tea-pot from a pedlar who came to our door—“

The King gestured him to silence, and said, “Imps, I suppose."

Mr Norrell nodded. “We laughed out of relief when we got the tea-pot free, and they took it for malice. So they’re making us discover about being the wrong size.”

"Not viciously," said Jonathan fairly. "Between our protective spells and them possibly not trying to kill us, it's merely d----d inconvenient! But they've obviously got a good idea of how to _make_ it inconvenient."

The King nodded. Then he looked back at Childermass, interested. "My knowledge of events in Christendom is not current. I believed you to be still in England, sir."

"I was until relatively recently," said Childermass. "Then I found myself over here looking after this daft ha'porth--" (he ruffled Gilbert's hair) "and this great soft dollop--" (he clapped Jonathan on the shoulder).

"So there are Three Magicians in the Darkness?" said the King thoughtfully.

"Aye," said Childermass, "but there's a great deal of magic being done in the North nonetheless, maybe further afield. I left a thriving magical school at Starecross, and the Raven King's new book being read, to boot! I should like to see what's going on, but I'm quite happy here." Mr Norrell reached up quietly and squeezed a finger of Childermass's large hand.

"I think we'd all say that we've had a lesson on that!" said Jonathan Strange. "We're all quite happy not to be trying to sway larger events any more." Mr Norrell gently reached for his hand, too.

"My ambition did me no credit, nor England," said Mr Norrell. "I prefer to be out of the temptation to meddle with either thaumaturgical law or the destiny of the Nation."

The table creaked, as the two larger men leant over it. Mr Norrell winced: it was an excellent table, he would not like to see it damaged.

But the King of Hope-Regained was not able to offer them a full answer, especially when he heard the Raven King had not moved to free them from their current predicament. He was so kind as to offer them a calling-spell, though. "If you can find something you need to do that you cannot manage, only call upon us in Hope-regained, and I shall try to send my image to offer what help I may."

So they remained unhelped. This was inconvenient: although the temporary giants had been offered toast this morning, and they had all improvised clothing, they were both suffering considerably from doorways, and chilly feet due to the sheets not being much of a substitute for boots.

As for Mr Norrell, he was trying to find something kind and useful to say, but had only come up with wringing his hands and muttering, "Poor Jonathan!" and "Oh dear, poor Childermass!" and then, "My poor house!"

"There's a man with a sense of priorities!" said Childermass.

"Of course I care for you both and don't want to hurt you," said Mr Norrell (realising to his own surprise that despite his more noticeable passion for Jonathan he did, and not simply carnally), "but Hurtfew kept me safe for so long, kept me company before I knew I wanted company, long before I saw either of your faces, that I do not want you to crack her doorframes or warp her stairs."

"Her?" said Childermass. "So there is a woman in your life!"

"Oh, you know very well it's a convention of phrasing!" said Mr Norrell, crossly.

"I know very well you don't want a woman in your _bed,"_ said Childermass infuriatingly, "I was only teasing you a little."

"I don't think either of us have any doubts about who you want to have in your bed," said the other half of the pair he wanted to have in his bed.

Mr Norrell looked at them. He gulped. Actually being an unmanageable— _quite unreasonable_ —size did not do as much as one might have thought to put him off the idea Childermass had just given him by mentioning its opposite.

Of course, they had been an even more unreasonable size yesterday, he thought, and it hadn’t put him off then.

In fact, this was somewhat more striking because when they walked about his face was almost on a level to all those interesting parts of men’s bodies that are normally clothed unless the use of a half-length toga is making them more noticeable.

“Well, you’re not having either of us right now,” said Childermass. “I doubt either of us can get it up when our feet are freezing and our heads keep knocking against things.”

“Actually,” said Mr Norrell, “We had better go back to bed because while we’re in bed we’re all right.” This was entirely practical, of course, he decided. Nothing to do with how he'd like to have them back to normal in bed. 

So they tried that. Mr Norrell watched as they tried to scramble into bed, both swearing. He kept getting the most interesting momentary views of the shadows between their legs, blocked annoyingly by blankets-as-clothing, blankets-as-bedclothes, and more-innocuous parts of their own bodies.

“Did you manage to find anything to our purpose?” he asked, undressing.

“Well, it was meant to be over the course of days,” said Jonathan. “From sleep to sleep, changing when we sleep at night. So though we were protected at night, it’s not going to let go now.”

“And Jonathan’s feet are very nearly as chilly as yours are at the moment,” said Childermass. “Must be something about being gentry.”

“I object to that remark!” said Jonathan. “I’ll have you know I marched with the army on the Peninsula and, unless the wet had got into my torn boots, I managed as well as anyone. It’s only because we’ve been going about half-dressed in this arrangement of bedclothes.” Then he sat up to argue with Childermass on the vexed question of whether his feet got too cold, and banged his head on the looming bedpost. “Ow!”

“Are you sure I can’t help you somehow?” asked Mr Norrell.

Childermass said, “Just because you’d like to help yourself to some of this.”

Mr Norrell said, “That’s a completely unwarrantable assumption, and not even true.” It was indeed not true. He wasn’t _just_ asking because he’d like a…large helping of what they usually gave him so generously.

“I’d rather like to warm my feet on him for a change!’ said Jonathan cheerfully.

Childermass said, “Well, now you mention it.”

“I will not be demoted to furniture in my own home,” Mr Norrell said mournfully.

“I can’t count how many times you’ve used my thighs for a warming-pan,” said Jonathan.

“I’ll have you know I shew the most considerate desire not to do that!” said Mr Norrell, since he was generally careful not to get into arguments about thighs _versus_ chilly feet, which might ruin his chances of an entertaining evening.

“Not until afterwards,” agreed Childermass. “He owes us the chance to warm our feet on him now, any road!”

“Well, if you insist,” said Mr Norrell.

With some difficulty, and mild swearing, they arranged themselves in the bed. What with Mr Norrell being smaller, and trying to not get a knee in the face, and trying to avoid certain important parts of him either getting _cold_ or getting _knocked_ …they ended up taking the blankets off, and his dear gentlemen settled him at the foot of the bed facing away and hunched up, while their knees were pulled up to try to warm their feet on him without actually kicking him out of bed.

"That is much less delightful than I expected," he reported sadly after some while, when they were in place and he was showing much less of an interest than he expected of himself.

"Oh, we can't be having that!" said Childermass, "Tha'lt come up here, my little Hobbit, and we shall keep thee warm."

The conversation was momentarily derailed to establish for Mr Norrell what a “hobbit” was. The curious generosity of John Uskglass in providing not merely what they knew they wanted or needed but things they might find enjoyable had extended beyond the larder to the book-shelves: among the books that were not books of magic were some extremely entertaining tales of fancy. One of which contained creatures which were very like short people (although they seemed not at all like denizens of Faerie). Both Childermass and Jonathan Strange had read that one. Mr Norrell wasn't even aware it was there, and they had to persuade him it wasn’t a recondite insult.

After a careful rearrangement of the somewhat larger men, another quarter-candlemark or so slipped by. Mr Norrell gave a half-sleepy sigh of bliss: while this definitely wasn't what he'd been after, it would do very nicely for now. 

Jonathan Strange said, "It's a pity we can't all enjoy it at once."

"Mm?" said Mr Norrell. 

"You see," said Jonathan, “either it's you dodging our flying limbs and our chilly feet, as we did earlier, or it's us poised on the edges of the bed trying not to hurt you, which is quite frankly enough to be a lot of effort, as well as feeling we're going to crash to the floor at any moment. As for you being a warming-pan, _none_ of us enjoyed that: you must have suffered from our feet, but we still had to practically have our heels on our backsides not to kick you out of bed.”

"We could use the Great Bedroom," said Mr Norrell half-doubtfully. "I believe it was set up in case Queen Anne came to stay--which is bad luck in itself because I believe she didn't get round to here, and the occupant at that time was nearly bankrupted. Then the owner could not manage to sell the bed because he found it difficult to get it out of the room and no-one wanted to buy it. The room is difficult to heat, partly because it is mainly taken up by an enormous bed. I believe it’s also supposed to be haunted. So of course none of us ever got round to using it. I had no guests."

The others agreed a larger bed might be an improvement.

"Will you carry our stone of protection?" asked Mr Norrell, pulling his banyan round him and putting his slippers on for the short journey,

Childermass got it out from under the mattress, with no more than a few token complaints about having to do all the heavy lifting. 

"And you, Jonathan, would you bring those pebbles?"

“What’ll you be carrying, Gilbert?” asked Childermass, who Mr Norrell suspected had never quite got over trying to make him do housework.

"I shall go and chase up a spell," Mr Norrell said. "I am sure I've seen some reference to cleaning rooms which have been out of use for many years."

"We'll all go," said Jonathan. "I have no doubt it'd be three times faster all in.”

Mr Norrell did find a spell to air and freshen a room that seemed practical enough, and they went to the Great Bedroom. Childermass hit his head going in, which he ascribed to the inconvenience of having to carry the Stone of Protection. When Jonathan lifted his hands to feel the energies—Jonathan always did the heavy lifting of crafting in such matters—he reported it to be a very comfortable, ‘handleable’ spell, in no way about to misfire on them. So Childermass and Mr Norrell read ahead to make sure it _wouldn't_ misfire on them (because Jonathan wasn't always right about that), and they performed it.

"I think that's the best spell I've cast all week!" said Jonathan Strange, and "Aye, it is that," said Childermass.

"That is...absolutely delightful," Mr Norrell admitted quietly. He surprised himself by how strongly it lifted his heart to feel the breeze that smelt of sun and rain and flowers. In Christendom, fresh air was only a window away, and he frequently hadn't even considered such a spell, or even opening the window. Here, opening the window was often a choice between unnatural stillness (if they were lucky) or the sort of weather where the candles might gutter and the fires smoke. Although he had comfortably adjusted to endless long winter afternoons and evenings—what cared he what was outside the windows with his back to them, after all?--and he liked the warmth and cosiness of being here with candles and cuddles and a good fire and plenty of books... Despite all that, he liked this.

The room had been left unaltered for a long time: the owners of Hurtfew had been well-to-do and not in urgent need of every inch of space. Since the Great Bedroom was mostly bed, a valuable antique with a splendid golden tester and rich curtains taking up most of the room, it had been left alone as an impractical and unmanageable choice for a guest-room, and it might actually be large enough to entertain the three of them.

Childermass put the stone of protection under the mattress. "What d'you think?" he said.

Mr Norrell opened the bed slightly mistrustfully. Even the linens were sweet and fresh! He kicked off his slippers and slid out of his banyan to test the bed properly.

"Let us see if this bed will hold up to the stress of three people, two of whom are somewhat larger than usual, lying in it." He moved over. 

Childermass carefully sat down on the edge.

"You can take your clothes off," suggested Mr Norrell.

They looked at him.

"In the interests of all fitting in," he added. 

"Of course," said Jonathan warmly. He had not Childermass's habit of mistrusting Mr Norrell's motives, which Mr Norrell put down to having had _quite unreasonable_ employers before coming into Norrell's own service.

Childermass gave him a sharp look, which he ignored, and undressed and got into bed.

Being warm and close with his two favourite people at home--now to all intents and purposes his two favourite people making up his entire world--was of course delightful. There was plenty of room. He would be very happy to sleep this way, after some attention. So he butted up his head under Childermass's chin (which everyone knew by now meant he would like some form of attention) and did some increasingly-pointed wriggling (which made it absolutely unambiguous which _kind_ of attention). 

Childermass said, "Not now, sir. It would be quite dangerous considering our size."

"Considering we managed without hurting me yesterday, and I was even smaller," Mr Norrell argued. 

"Yes, Childermass has a point," said Jonathan. "There's a difference since yesterday." He drew Gilbert's hand to his stiff prick. "Isn't that somewhat too big?"

Mr Norrell obediently began to estimate it. 

"Aye," said Childermass. "Time was they used to call a man's piece his 'yard', but if it's _actually_ a yard long...”

"Mm," said Mr Norrell, who was still estimating it. 

Jonathan firmly dissuaded him. "Yes, I _was_ enjoying it. But we're going to keep you safe, and that includes 'from us' and 'when you're being unreasonable.'"

"Very well," said Mr Norrell. "Somebody go and fetch The Instrument."

"Are you sure...?" said Jonathan. 

Childermass said, "He was quite happy with it the other day, and by 'quite happy' I mean, 'not actively pulling it out and howling for actual cock stuffed up him...'"

 _"Really,_ Childermass, that was a completely unjustifiable thing to say!" muttered Mr Norrell primly.

Jonathan, who was nearer the door, got up and put his 'toga' on. "All right then--and no starting without me!"

"Do you permit kissing?" asked Mr Norrell.

 _"Just_ kissing," said Jonathan firmly, and went out, only banging his head once on the door-frame and saying, "Ow!"

So they had done a bit of kissing and a bit of snuggling, by the time Jonathan came back (this time ducking his head).

"How will we do this?" asked Childermass.

"I feel rather tempted to go between you," said Mr Norrell.

"No," said the others in unison.

"You do it and I watch, then," Mr Norrell decided, and handed them some oil he'd been applying to himself. 

Childermass very carefully helped The Instrument mount him...if that was what it was called when there wasn't a man directly involved. Slip into him, anyway. He sighed. That was what he'd wanted, or a reasonable approximation to it. He appreciated the crafting, as well: spell or design, it was wonderfully smooth, both the surface and the way it rocked into him.

Then Jonathan mounted Childermass, who said, "Give me a moment," and Mr Norrell remembered, yes, they didn't usually have the chance to swap positions. But Childermass asked for more after not-too-long, and all of them were happy.

He settled to watch what he could of the pair of them: they were so beautiful, even at this quite ridiculous size, the heat of them beside him felt if anything better, and he could take any amount of this, as the device worked smoothly and steadily and...stopped.

A moan of despair rose to his lips, as quietly as possible because he didn't want to ruin anybody else's entertainment. 

Jonathan, who was on top of Childermass, didn't notice. 

Childermass said, "Stop a minute, he moaned."

"Doesn't he always," said Jonathan fondly. "I'm glad he's enjoying it."

"The wrong _sort_ of moan," said Childermass. "You're more in love, but I know what he sounds like when he's getting it, and when he's not."

Gilbert Norrell said sadly, "It went very well to start with. Unfortunately, your more _creative_ spells aren't always quite right unless you've had one of us check them."

Jonathan Strange went quiet for a few moments, and then said, "Oh, I know what it is! When I formed the spell, I had no expectation that you would be in need of it longer than one night, before you went back to bedding us in preference, so I did not fire the animal spirits of it sufficiently! I can probably reload it from here," he added with his usual airy confidence.

"I must protest in the strongest terms a dangerously-untried spell being treated like a gun when it is _in my person,_ Sir..." Mr Norrell got as far as stating.

A warm and enormous hand covered his fundament, a hot slide of magical force shot into him, and he said, "don't stop!" He felt Jonathan hold the spell even while returning his hands (and presumably attention) to Childermass, and he spent himself very thoroughly, because he was _finally_ being fucked. It didn't matter that it wasn't Jonathan's actual bodily prick in him, it was Jonathan's actual _magic_ in him, which was quite as personal.

He said, "wait," and felt the direct flux of the magic ease back.

"I think that was adequate," said Jonathan. Mr Norrell wasn't good at people, but he suspected Jonathan wasn't particularly perturbed, and might have been grinning. Jonathan had a better idea of the immediate flow of his own magic than either of them of theirs, and possibly--probably--knew the effect it had.

"Good," said Childermass cheerfully. "I'd just as lief not have stopped to have you sort him out, because we were doing well. Which, I might add, we still are.”

Mr Norrell said, "More?" extremely _sotto voce,_ and let The Instrument work in him. He was glad of the Stone of Protection under the mattress: they were beginning to get into the harder strokes, and he would have hated a sudden accident to have knocked him out of bed.

Jonathan said, "I like playing with magic in bed!" and gave Childermass a sudden firm thrust.

Childermass groaned deeply and said, "I can tell. You're throwing off heat like a coal-fire and hard as a stone."

Childermass had a way with words, Mr Norrell thought. Now he was imagining Jonathan in that pleasing condition in _him._

Jonathan and Childermass finished at once, thoroughly and loudly enough to make that quite clear.

Mr Norrell said, "More!" and gasped a rather complaining noise when it merely continued as smoothly as before. 

"Now, Gilbert," said Jonathan instructively, still panting, "you know I told you the word was 'more' to start again, not to make it stronger."

Mr Norrell could not remember the word he'd used to make it stronger. He followed Jonathan's example and demanded, "Stronger!" (which had no effect), and "Harder!" (which had no effect). Similarly, when he actually said, "Forceful!" or "Intense!" there was no reaction. Then he said, "wait," in the interests of a moment to think. Trying another approach, he tried counting upwards. He said, "One!" but instead of moving in and out it began to actually throb inside him. The sensation might have been uncomfortable if it weren't for the lubrication and his state of arousal. With an almost pained groan, he said, "Two!" and it moved...more so, which of course meant it was tickling and teasing him inside. It still didn't move in and out, though, and he'd like that to finish off. "Three!" he said, and that was _much_ more intense, but since he was accustomed to a more thrusting motion it wasn't quite satisfactory, even though it was nearly...nearly.... "Four!" he demanded and it neither stopped nor intensified the pulsing. He kept repeating, "Four!" and eventually tried "Five!" and “Six!" Meanwhile, the third setting was still so intense inside him that he couldn’t _think._

Jonathan put a large hand on his bottom again. "Are we having a little difficulty here, Gilbert?" he asked. "I told you the word to start again is 'more!'"

It obediently started again. The same subtle stroking--not really hammering him like the more intense session he'd had a few nights ago--but joined with the steady pressure inside him it was quite enough. A couple of held breaths, then he waited for it to reach the full depth of its stroke as it thrummed inside him, and he came all over the bed with a shout of relief and the vague sense it had almost turned him inside out. 

"Wait," said Jonathan to the device.

"Thank you," murmured Mr Norrell, who was by no means sure he would have remembered to say that. 

"As a matter of interest," asked Childermass, "what was that last trick?”

“In my misspent youth,” said Jonathan, “what little there was of it, I briefly turned my hand to any number of ways of life before I became a magician. On one day, on the way towards visiting my relatives in the North, I fell into conversation with someone who had one of those new-fangled engines in a manufactory, and went to see it. Not, you understand, because I had a predisposition toward the trade, but rather because it was something I could cross off my list with the statement that I'd tried it. Anyway, before deciding that it was very much not for me, I leaned on their engine, which as I said inspired me to this work. It creates a _very_ curious sensation in the human frame, even when one is just close to it. Which I thought might be very interesting from inside to someone like Gilbert.”

“Mm,” said Mr Norrell reminiscently, stealthily starting again with a murmur of “more!”, although since he had a distinct preference for fucking he’d started again with the smooth gentle thrusts rather than that peculiar thrill which Jonathan had so cleverly modelled on an engine.

"And we've got another problem," said Childermass. "We've given him a taste for something we can't provide, not in our own bodies, and I may be happy sharing him with you, when we know what he likes and we both do it. I'm a fair bit less happy about sharing him with _that,"_ he added. 

"Oh, don't be so silly!" said Mr Norrell, not being particularly minded to suffer fools gladly even when they were a third of the local population and not generally foolish. He sighed happily as the strokes were particularly good.

"Gilbert, be fair to us," said Jonathan. "I can't help noticing that it's actually still in you right now."

"If you were... looking," said Gilbert, "you'd notice...that I'm...not doing the... the thing Childermass is so...worried about." His eyes closed, and he settled back down.

"Which is?" asked Jonathan.

"That thing...that thing a man...a man's prick can't..." He was as irritable as he could be when enjoying himself, so he began to frig himself; stealthily, consolingly, in the manner of a man who wants to get some amusement from the silly questions he was being asked.

"So you're telling me you don't like the buzzing trick?" said Jonathan, as if that disappointed him.

"Occasional diversion," said Mr Norrell crossly. “I. Like. To. Be. _Fucked!"_ he explained (although the intended effect of tersely bitten-off words was rather ruined by ending on a choked-off near-scream). The effect of those hammer-blows of pleasure inside him, with his hand frantically rubbing his prick in front, was enough to finish him for the third time, and he managed to gasp "wait!" before it became altogether too much, with the last spurts from his prick.

There was a silence.

"I _knew_ you'd remember that word, Gilbert!" said Jonathan encouragingly. "I thought to set a word you don't use much the rest of the time, but use it reasonably often in the heat of the moment."

"Ouch," said Gilbert Norrell mildly. "I think I pulled a muscle."

"First time I've heard it called that!" said Childermass. 

"Here, let me see," said Jonathan, and peered at his wrist, surrounding it with a warm loop of magic. 

"Better," said Mr Norrell with relief, and then, "How many shots did you load in the breech?"

"Four," said Jonathan, "although I should imagine the question is academic at the moment." 

Mr Norrell rolled his hips like a somewhat cautious whore, looked him as deliberately in the eye as he could manage, and said, "More!"

“While I’d hesitate to say we’ve created an insatiable appetite on account of _he already had one,”_ said Childermass rather worriedly, “I don’t want us to have to share our bed with that thing every night, let alone having to pull it out every time we might feel the need.”

Jonathan laughed delightedly. “It’s not the device he’s got a taste for,” he said.

“Oh? Given the chance, he barely lets it out of him for hours on end,” said Childermass.

Jonathan put him out of his misery. “When he had the choice, he was happy with us,” he said.

"Perfectly reasonable," said Mr Norrell, panting slightly.

"But he seems to be enjoying something about the night," said Childermass, "and I don't want him to get too fixated on that one trick we can't do."

Jonathan laughed heartily, and stopped the device.

Mr Norrell objected as it was drawn out of him.

"I only want you to have your wits about you enough to explain, Sir," said Jonathan. "Then you may have it back."

"Explain what?" he snapped sourly. 

"You see," said Jonathan, "what he liked wasn't that trick.”

Mr Norrell thought about it now he _could_ think. "The buzzing thing was more of a nuisance than anything," he explained, "although it certainly didn't prevent the desired result. What Jonathan did--when he touched me--that was most of it. May we continue, please?"

Childermass said, "But he didn't touch you," he said. "He was in me for most of that."

"He means," Jonathan said, "if I touch him with my magic he finds that as exciting as anything we've ever done physically."

"Well!" said Childermass, who sounded really surprised for once. "Give that here a moment. See if we can both fill it: I'd like to see if I can learn it."

Mr Norrell said, "Might I make a suggestion? One of you at a time, please. I have already had quite a busy evening, and both might be too much for me."

They practiced by Jonathan gently encircling Childermass's wrist with magic, not for a purpose but as a demonstration.

It took them about fifteen minutes for Childermass to get a feel for this more direct, abstract use of magic. Not to make the device buzz or do technical trickery, which had evidently been what he did not like before, but to let his own magic flow cleanly and slowly through it.

It was strange. Mr Norrell’s own magic was thickly-covered in caution and tightly-laced with precision, while Jonathan’s was spattered with glittering dash and what Jonathan assured him the Italians called _“brio”._ Using the Two Magicians of England for an example, one would always suspect that magic displayed style.

He had never thought to consider what ‘flavour’ Childermass’s magic had. He had never realised that Childermass’s personal style was so smooth that there was no overspill.

Childermass didn't even precisely fill the device with the energy to thrust. Instead, when the lesson was over, he took it gently in his hand and slid it where Gilbert wanted it. Then he tapped it very lightly on the base and murmured something Mr Norrell did not hear, and it started the smooth strokes inside him. Now Childermass was working him inside, he could finally catch a little of Childermass’s ‘flavour’, and it was something like water flowing endlessly in a lush secret stream in spring—or a mouthful of pipe-smoke by the fire that vanished in an instant—or a pair of apples shared crunchily between Childermass and Brewer—or secret laughter cleared from his face before facing the world—or drawings on those cards Childermass still used as a book of divination. Quick momentary and often hidden impressions seemed to be most of it, but all of them tickled at him erotically inside his head, now he was being very thoroughly pleasured by the man’s magic.

“You’re not usually that quiet,” said Childermass, sounding a little worried.

Mr Norrell spent violently, with a groan.

“It was a _listening_ sort of quiet,” he explained after a few minutes. 

"There you are, Childermass, you're less noisy than I am magically," said Jonathan. "Considering what Gilbert said about my magic when he was being nice _and_ when he was being rude, it's not surprising."

So Gilbert explained a little about the sense of magic. "It appears, Childermass, that when you're beside me--or Jonathan--or both of us--we cannot sense your magic as we sense each other's. But when your magic is actually _inside_ me I can sense it."

"Do you think his magic will get more powerful as he gets more accustomed, as we do?" asked Jonathan. 

"I don't think it's lack of _power,"_ said Mr Norrell thoughtfully. "He simply leaves nothing showing on the outside."

"I liked it too," said Childermass quietly. "I've always had the habit of thinking twice before I let anything show, and I had to be crafty learning from you."

"I am all clarity and kindness!" Mr Norrell said, ruffled.

Childermass laughed quietly. "Aye, you are now, by your standards. But when we were in Christendom, you taught me naught but the Scopus, and that only for your own purposes. I had to get on on my own. I learned shadow-craft in your service, since I can be more help if people don't see me--and sometimes I used it in your library."

Another soft thrill of pleasure at the thought went through Mr Norrell. He moaned.

Then his head came up in indignation, "In my library!"

"I learned a few aids to housework from the shelves you pointed out to Jonathan, and told him a gentleman need not touch," Childermass added. "I never sought to encroach, or be your better in any way, or set up a street booth."

"I would have said no," said Mr Norrell sulkily. "I certainly would _not_ have taught you any more..." His breath caught. He waited. 

"Oh, Gilbert, Gilbert!" said Jonathan, "you've learnt just in time for it to stop. I told you I gave it four, and then you'd better stop for your own good."

"I'll have you both. Promptly, if you please!"

"You promised you'd manage with The Instrument," said Jonathan. "We _can't_ fuck you. You'd _break."_

"I didn't mean that," he protested (although after a lifetime of avoiding risks, he found the momentary vision of being "fucked till he broke" disturbingly arousing).

Mr Norrell humped himself up somewhat, opening his legs. “Just a drop more...? _Would_ you? _Please?"_

Jonathan said, "My magic, then?"

"Both!" insisted Mr Norrell. "Your power, and his control."

So Jonathan rested a large fingertip on the top of the device, and it grew hotter.

Childermass's fingertip rested lightly on Jonathan's--just near enough that Mr Norrell's sensitivity noticed it--and Gilbert moaned as the heat flowing into him became a steady delicious trickle instead of a restless ebb and flow. He could taste it in his mind now, and it made his toes curl. More and more of it was filling and overflowing him now--a loop of it trickled out of his arse and very softly down and, with intent, over his balls and eager (if slightly sore) prick. It felt _golden,_ like gentle fire, like warmed honey, as it looped over him. The pleasure flowed through and out of him with nothing but a sigh of utter greed that seemed to last for a long time.

"All right?" asked his lovers.

"Mm," he said, as he drifted into a post-coital sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

The next day, he woke up contentedly in Jonathan's arms. Considering the quite excessive amount of amorous activity the night before, he did not feel particularly in need of attention.

They did, however, need to learn where Childermass had got to. 

Childermass strode out from beneath the corner of the pillow with a face like thunder. He was taller than Mr Norrell had been in abridged form, presumably because he was taller in his normal form, and the general effect was of a small but bristling kitten preparing to snarl. 

Gilbert Norrell suddenly found an appreciation for the many ways dear Jonathan had irritated him by trying to snuggle him when he was, in Jonathan's terms, trying to be pompous. Not that Childermass could approach pomposity in any form, but all of a sudden he wanted to pick up an angry Childermass and subject him to a kiss.

He thought back: he himself would have hated to be shrunk if it weren't for his amorous propensities providing a much-needed diversion. Childermass didn't seem to be thinking of... _that._

Mr Norrell thought of how he would have felt given the circumstances. 

Childermass said, "Don't pity me."

Mr Norrell said, "I wouldn't dream of it. I'm just thinking of how well you took care of me so that I did not take fright. I hope I can think of something I can do for you."

Childermass snorted. "Don't wrench your wits. I know you don't easily take to 'looking after' anyone.”

There was a silence. 

Mr Norrell said, with some difficulty, "I should have...when it was necessary." He wished he knew what expression his face was making. It was probably quite ridiculous. There was no reason for Childermass to know what he was talking about. Childermass had probably forgotten. He _hoped_ Childermass had forgotten.

Childermass said, more gently, "Aye, I know that. And I think you know it now."

Mr Norrell did. When Childermass was shot, the world had seemed to drop away beneath his feet in sheer shock, because Childermass was _there_ to be there when nothing else was! It was what he was for! However could Mr Norrell do anything on his own?

A week later, he'd sat bolt upright in bed at four in the morning and cursed his own stupidity roundly, because he could then think of four or five spells for wound-dressing and recovery, and he had remembered none of them at the time (when he had a nasty feeling he'd complained at Childermass for having the temerity to be shot). 

Jonathan said, "Should I ask? Is it important?"

Childermass said, "It was."

"I was idiotic enough to freeze when Childermass...got shot, in my service," said Mr Norrell. "I forgot every scrap of my art, and was no help at all."

"That wasn't what you got wrong," said Childermass. 

"I am not a doctor," said Mr Norrell. "I am unhandy with my hands. Of course magic would have to be what I could do to help."

Childermass sighed. "I meant, simply as a man. Whether or not I was bedding you at that point, we'd known each other for years."

Mr Norrell bowed his head. He had no defence against that.

"You didn't even apologise! You were more bothered I might have been doing magic!"

Mr Norrell said simply, "I was afraid."

"I deserved better than being scolded for getting shot while trying to protect you," said Childermass. 

Mr Norrell thought about that. "If we were at home I think, I _hope,_ I would have been different. I was trying to think things out and they--the Londoners--told me how kind I was to visit my servant. My understanding of people is weak. I tried to work out whether they meant it or whether they were mocking me for doing so ungentlemanly a thing."

Childermass snorted. "You're no better than most gentry," he said, quieter and possibly sounding less angry. "Somebody comes in when you're behaving badly and tells you how kind and considerate you're being, you go straight to believing it without a second thought."

"Sorry," muttered Mr Norrell. 

"I didn't catch that, sir?"

Mr Norrell's head came up sharply. "I said, I'm sorry! And it's difficult enough to go back to my past and find out I was being appalling all of the times I thought I...wasn't, so I'll thank you to simply accept it or not." He was slightly annoyed, and also annoyed that he shouldn't be annoyed because he was in the wrong. 

Jonathan had a fit of the giggles, for some reason. 

"Well," said Childermass, "It's a good job I don't love you for your sweet and accommodating nature."

"I am at a loss to account for anyone loving me at all, at this point," said Mr Norrell. "However, since I am in this fortunate situation, I find I would detest being alone, and it would cut your available society somewhat. Therefore you may as well continue loving me, and if I make a mistake, let me know, that I may amend it."

It was, in his opinion, a very creditable speech, and he was at a loss to account for both men howling with laughter. He glared. 

Jonathan said, "Oh, I do love you! Whether or not it makes sense."


	5. Chapter 5

Jonathan had a really good idea for a spell.

"An idea I got here," he said, gesturing towards the most "fanciful" shelves of the library. "The Norse myths."

Mr Norrell did not have to expend any particular effort in looking blank.

"From Norway and so on--over there somewhere--" he added with a vague gesture. "Well, anyway, they came to harry us on our shores about the time of the Normans. Their stories of gods had all sorts of odd details. One rather _poetic_ idea was, well, they had need of an unbreakable chain to contain a wolf which would cause the end of the world. They used a mixture of the impossible or hard-to-find: the footfall of a cat, the beard of a woman; with the incredibly strong: the roots of a mountain, the sinew of a bear. So, anyway, this is going to be a fairly tricky spell, and I think the materiel should be something like that, something strong."

"What kind of things?" asked Mr Norrell, interested as he ever was when Mr Strange began to think of something ambitious. "Because I am certainly not going out in search of something as heroic as the sinew of a bear."

"Spider-webs, for strength and binding," said Mr Strange. "Spider-webs are remarkably strong for what they are, and not at all needing heroic abilities. Now, what else can we put?"

"Honesty-pods," suggested Childermass. "Encouraging honesty should do well enough, and it's said to do for the moon. And it's the season for them."

Mr Norrell suggested particularly strong ink.

So Childermass helped them in turn, carried in the basket for tiny magicians, and they found and brought in all the supplies: honesty-pods from the garden; spider-webs rather horrifyingly from the library, where Mr Norrell would not care to consider them; black ink from the library, but considerably more appealing than the thought of books getting dirty. 

Jonathan came up with a quite unnecessary and in Mr Norrell's opinion rather frilly florilegium, declaiming in fine style. The spell was bound with spider-webs and coloured with ink for the dark sky and decorated with honesty pods. 

Both Mr Norrell and Childermass did their best to try to check, but they could feel the spell light and almost dancing in Jonathan's hand.

The world swam around Mr Norrell's head for a moment. 

Suddenly, all three of them were lying in bed, equally-sized. In their normal bed, which meant they were now back to normal.

"I wish very badly to celebrate before we have to get up," suggested Mr Norrell. "I have had quite enough of The Instrument for one week. Not that it's not very well-made," he added hastily to Jonathan. 

"I don't know," said Jonathan, with a grin. "Do you think he deserves to be er, _celebrated?"_ he asked Childermass. 

Childermass pulled the bedclothes back and slapped Mr Norrell's bottom. Mr Norrell failed to glare. "Well, I'm going to celebrate him until he's cross-eyed and can barely walk," he suggested. 

"Pirates?" suggested Mr Norrell hopefully. He had always had the odd rather highly-coloured fancy of being a stowaway on a pirate ship, and then when he was discovered, the Captain bent him over and _fucked_ him, noisily and hard, and then just left him there to be used by the rest of the crew in order of rank. In discovering this a while ago, his two lovers had always been glad to accommodate the idea.

Jonathan slapped him obligingly on the rump. "I'm the Captain, and I say bend over and prepare for boarding!"

"You're not taking this seriously," complained Mr Norrell. 

"I'm the Captain," repeated Jonathan, "and I say 'Bend over and get fucked within an inch of your life.'"

Mr Norrell shuddered, and moaned, and was no help whatsoever in positioning himself or reaching for the oil. "You don't need to lovingly prepare me," he complained, "it breaks the whole story."

"Well, I'm not going to chafe myself raw getting into you," said Jonathan, "so you'll take what we give you and like it. Which is the whole idea. You can't stop me getting my fingers in you..." They were very large fingers. Gilbert moaned loudly. "...any more than you can stop this." 

The Pirate Captain spread him open and shoved right in.

A delicious little thrill of near-terror ran through Gilbert, because this was, he presumed, very much like being helplessly violated, except...

The Pirate Captain stopped. "On _this_ ship," he said, "we make our prisoners _beg."_

 _"Fuck!"_ said Gilbert quietly. 

"Good enough!" said the Pirate Captain, and complied, putting his back into it. He was so much quicker and more careless playing the part (as opposed to his normal style) that he brought himself to a brisk and thorough conclusion without so much as inquiring after the health of Gilbert's prick. 

Gilbert squirmed. 

"Now, now," said Jonathan. "You know you like it this way." He eased out. "You're actually dripping with me, which is quite an inspiring sight."

Gilbert wailed. 

"And here's the First Mate, who's been complaining about the lack of ports, in a storm or otherwise. Not so much as a sniff of a whore, but you'll serve well enough."

Slapping him on the bottom (why did they both always do that?), the "First Mate" said, "No whining. You know I know what I'm about!"

He did indeed.

"Make yourself useful and kneel up, and I'll frig you while we're at it. Nice and tight, the way you need it."

He muttered sulkily, "...don't need it..."

"I'm going to ignore that," the "First Mate" said between thrusts, "because I know what's best for you," he continued with more thrusting, "and you're a greedy..." (squeeze) "...little..." (squeeze) "whore." He squeezed again, while biting Gilbert gently on the shoulder, and Gilbert came off, almost crying with relief, feeling Childermass go with him.

Soon they were asleep. 

When they woke up, however, Mr Norrell was the one to discover they had a problem.

He slapped his feet onto the floor quite simply, as one would getting ready to go to use either the necessary article under the bed or the privy, and discovered all was not well. 

The skin prickled on his neck and back. He'd known Hurtfew for a long time, in various temperatures and moods, and he knew the precise calibration of the creak of the bed when he sat up, and the exact indentations of the worn floor. 

Even given the minor distraction of the ache in his well-used backside, this was...not right. 

He got the lantern ablaze, and called for the others. Although they did not appear to quite understand, they trusted him. 

Childermass looked beneath the mattress. "We have got something wrong," he said. "If this were anything to do with us, we'd have put our protections up just in case, or gone to the big bed where they were."

Mr Norrell made the light briefly shine much further.

Childermass and Jonathan Strange cursed with a sailor's and a soldier's fluency. Mr Norrell thought a few slightly bad words. 

The ceiling was a long way off. A very long way off. They were in the library, but it was difficult to see any of the books, or the furniture. The fire was unlit. Great timbers the size of trees loomed up in the vast fireplace. They could not read any books.

The reason they had thought themselves the right size was that they were all imp-sized. Only the bed, and bedside table (and the contents of the bedside table, the lantern and the oil), were of a suitable size for their new situation. Everything else was "giant". 

Mr Norrell was annoyed with himself for not checking before celebrating their victory. "We need a better idea of what they actually did," he said. "Suddenly we have no access to food, nor means to make a fire, nor any of my books. I should have thought to memorise more while I still had access to the books. I did not even memorise that verse they announced to us."

"Ah," said Jonathan. "I used to have a spell I used to take notes, since my handwriting is not good and..."

Mr Norrell nodded. "I suppose I encouraged you to take many notes." He thought wistfully of how much study had been a continual pleasure to him, and how he had looked forward to introducing that to Jonathan, yet Jonathan did not seem to seek it out.

"But I think I could get that verse they announced to us," Jonathan said. "Nothing simpler!" He was quiet a moment, then waved a hand, and a piece of paper fluttered down. 

Slightly stunned, they fought their way out from underneath it, and Childermass and Norrell joined in wrestling it down to something more suitable for their current size. 

"Jonathan, my dear," said Gilbert Norrell, "though I yield to no-one in my admiration for your magical powers, perhaps you could warn someone before you are about to exercise them."

They all read it with far more attention than they had devoted to the original. 

“Ye shall forget, but when ye sleep  
And while ye sleep, some spell will come  
Whittle your size down to a thumb  
Until the next day's dawn will creep.

The getter-up, the dawn to greet,  
Once merely great shall be as vast  
As ship or house, and this shall last  
All day. Unshod shall be his feet,

And tired he shall be at day's end,  
When some another of ye fools  
Will turn in turn their size. Perhaps tools  
And books and spells are not your friend,

The spell shall only wind up when  
All three of you shall--"

"'As vast as ship or house?'" said Jonathan indignantly. 

"By their scale we are," said Childermass. "They found it easy to imagine us the same size as they are to the rest of the world. We can be glad they found it harder to imagine a size as much bigger to _us_ as we are to _them."_

"Tiring and irritating _with no boots,"_ said Jonathan. Mr Norrell thought about his description of life in the Peninsula, and gave him a quick hug. 

"It thinks we're all 'fools'," said Childermass. "It straight-down warns us not to do exactly what we did and think of spells to counter it with magic. But I don't think they want to kill us: they could have set the bed up on the edge of the library desk and made us walk off a cliff when we got up."

"I wish we knew what the end is, 'all three of us' what? said Jonathan. 

"As the resident coward and voice of wisdom," said Mr Norrell after a few moments, "I think it is plainly evident where it is heading. Firstly, they disliked being forced out of somewhere they were comfortable just because other people are bigger. Secondly, no matter _how_ warlike they are, we laughed at them simply because we could, being a different size, so they wanted to show us how it felt. Thirdly, they were _strongly_ against us merely beating them by recourse to our Art, and thus not learning a lesson. I believe what they actually want is for all three of us to sue for peace and offer terms. After a sight of how ill-commoded the world is for those of us a few inches tall, it should not be impossible to find some tribute we can send their way that should not trouble us too much while benefiting them considerably."

Mr Norrell got Jonathan Strange to get a message to the King of Hope-Regained (being rather fascinated that dear Jonathan had the adaptability to turn the distance-vision spell now out of reach on their desk from "bowl of water" to "discarded teaspoon we just found") and they explained their situation. 

"In hindsight, going for a magical solution was a mistake," said Jonathan.

"Now all three of us are unable to use most of our magical equipment, or indeed anything," said Mr Norrell, "but I'm fairly certain the next step is to try diplomatic means and explain that we are currently helpless, very apologetic, and have plentiful supplies for sending them some sort of tribute once they return us to our natural state. But in order to do that, we need a means to contact them, and our magical books and appurtenances are out of reach."

The King smiled (which looked very odd in the teaspoon). "That much we can do. I shall ask in my _brugh,_ and I am sure somebody will know their direction."

And so it proved.

A knock on the door came, and two Faeries walked in, both of them rather furry. They were carrying what looked like a model ship, which they placed gently on the floor before leaving. 

A door on the model ship opened.

While the imps were still bristling with weaponry as they came out to meet them, they appeared reassured that the Christians were treating them with less warlike aspect.

Mr Norrell came forward first, with a piece of torn sheet as a flag of truce. He explained as much of the history of truces and diplomacy as he could in some detail before Childermass gently nudged his foot. He knew from experience that meant people might start to get bored, so he hurriedly introduced "my very dear friend, Jonathan Strange". 

Jonathan, with his charm, explained that the lavender had been a rash attempt to solve a problem, the laughter an outburst of relief at having their tea-pot back, and now they all had a little more humility. "We apologise unreservedly, gentlemen. It was entirely my fault as a young and rash magician to leap straight into action."

"It's not that we dislike the smell in general," said the oldest imp. "Put a bunch of lavender somewhere, you might get _more_ people of the _brugh_ than otherwise."

There was a brisk nodding of heads.

"But an offensive smell and taste of artificial lavender forty times stronger than natural puts us right off."

Childermass said, "How did all of you fit into a tea-pot?"

A gentlemanly imp with fine clothes and a sharp beard stepped forward. "It wasn't so much a home as an advance sortie," he said. "We are in need of a place to make our own, and _one_ of us," the spokes-imp rather theatrically stopped to glare at someone behind him, "made a disagreement with someone in the _brugh_ we were in. Since they were giants just as much as you Christians, and better-armed against us, we paid a pedlar to take us somewhere..."

Childermass said, "Somewhere you could make mischief because no-one could deal with size-changing?"

"Oh come _on!"_ exclaimed the spokes-imp. "If you were our size, and the only defence you had against other people was temporary size-changing, I'm sure that's what you'd try to do."

"So what do you actually need?" said Childermass. 

Mr Norrell stepped forward again. "We would like to find things we can do for you that are easy at our normal size and win your good opinion, but we, ah..." _Politeness,_ Norrell thought, _is not among my own particular talents, but I think there is no polite way to put this._

Jonathan added, "What Gilbert is trying to be diplomatic in saying, Sir, is that we have no wish to be tripping over you all the time, because that will irritate us and endanger you. We have no objections at all to you turning up twice a year requiring tribute from us, if it's reasonably achievable, but... _not_ living in the library."

 _...except dear Jonathan seems to have thought of one, bless him!_ Mr Norrell concluded, nodding fervently. 

"That is no particular trouble," said a lady (a disturbingly warlike lady with a sharply pointed weapon to hand). "In your mountainous ranges..."

After a moment's discussion, it emerged that that meant "stairs", and the spare bedrooms thereon. 

With a little effort on the part of three magicians, the putting in of some small amount of soil to till, a tiny flowing water-course, and the setting-up of one of Jonathan's blue "daylight" lanterns, a pleasant _brugh_ would be designed, with herbs and fruits to eat.

"There would be some lack of hunting," the spokes-imp complained, "unless--how attached are you to your mice, gentlemen?"

It was established, especially by Mr Norrell, that free use of all the murine population within Hurtfew's walls might be entirely given over to the new residents. Mr Norrell might even be generous enough to create a spell to send the mice upstairs to their _brugh._

With a promised basket of prepared food from the magicians for the imps' Midwinter and Midsummer Feasts, everything was concluded satisfactorily to both sides.

When restored, they stood in the library in front of a fine crackling fire as they waited for the faerie servants to come and collect the now-happy vessel of imps from the sopha. 

"What do you think of that, gentlemen?" said Gilbert, rubbing his hands as their small tormentors left to the accompaniment of less-martial music. "I rather think all sides might consider themselves the winners."

Jonathan looked perhaps a little sad.

Mr Norrell was not certain, but this interpretation was confirmed by Childermass putting an arm round Jonathan, so he asked, "Is there anything the matter?"

"Only--" Jonathan paused for a moment "--I just had a moment's thought that if we were in Christendom, Bell would have _loved_ this. The idea of being diplomatic with miniature people, and then having to work out what you could do to help, is so exactly how she described playing with dolls as a child. I'm sure she has a happy life..."

Childermass said softly, "I used the cards once. Nothing as detailed as what she's doing or who she's married to, but you were right to tell her not to be a widow. I think time passes differently where she is."

Jonathan smiled half-sadly. "Perhaps the most wonderful thing about being with you two instead of her is I feel I don't have to tone down my fascination with magic. I only took it up from the least noble motives imaginable--to stop Bell complaining about my lack of a profession and induce her to marry me--but as soon as I started getting really involved with it, she teased me unmercifully. I mean, being teased by Arabella could be marvellous," he added fairly, "but after a while it all got a bit wearing on both sides."

"I didn't have noble motives, Sir," said Childermass. "I needed a little magic to protect myself, and I wanted to be good at it."

"I was something of the sort myself," said Mr Norrell. "Self-protection, and the desire to show talent. It's a lot easier to admit to it from here."

Childermass took his hand. "Maybe that was why I had so much patience with you, sir," he said. "You let me speak back to you, which isn't that common in service, and I could understand both wanting to protect yourself, and wanting to be a magician."

Mr Norrell thought about that. He apologised for turning Childermass off effectively without a character, on the advice of a knave. 

"Crows are flying backwards through the sky, and small birds are falling stunned at our feet!" exclaimed Childermass. "Gilbert Norrell has apologised to me. Twice. For significant things. And all it took was an unspecified amount of time and Eternal Darkness."

Gilbert trod on his foot accidentally-on-purpose. 

There was a slight scuffle. 

Childermass said to Jonathan Strange, "That's the thing about not having him in love with me, sir. See what I have to put up with? He treads on my feet!" But he was smiling. 

"In the interests of equality, shall I declare my love for _you_ or tread on _his_ feet?" inquired Mr Norrell. 

"It's a tough decision," said Childermass. "I'll have you love me, because you need to work on it."

So Gilbert Norrell gave him a long kiss, serious and gentle. "I do love you. Pass it on," he suggested. 

Watching John Childermass giving Jonathan Strange a loving kiss was new. 

He sighed. 

He'd have rather preferred to watch a passionate kiss: involving his prick for a casting vote on affairs cut the likelihood of inappropriate jealousy. He wasn't sure he was feeling jealous. He just wasn't completely sure he was _not._

Then Childermass and Jonathan Strange both turned to him with a smile. 

"You don't seem to have managed a cock-stand watching us kiss. Are you sure you're well, Sir?" said Jonathan. 

"All right," said Mr Norrell thoughtfully. "Touch me without touching me--I dare you!"

 _That_ was Jonathan's magic, flowing over him and stiffening his prick without apparent effort. And _that_ was Childermass, practically holding him steady against thin air, in utter control of every part of his body (particularly that one). 

Then Childermass _almost_ let him go, for the last few seconds, and Mr Norrell made a few really embarrassing noises, came hard, and fell down on a bed of empty air. 

"You're right, Childermass," said Jonathan, after a few quiet moments. "I wasn't worried about giving him unusual tastes before, but now...what if he only wants that? I mean, he had us properly earlier and he still wanted that."

 _"Do shut up,_ Jonathan," said Gilbert, with some pleasure, getting up from the not-bed. 

Jonathan looked momentarily hurt, perhaps, but then seemed to make a mental connection and grinned.

"You haven't noticed the benefits of this change in our arrangements," said Mr Norrell. "Over time, you will be able to control it completely. One day, I intend to be able to fellate you, rather thoroughly, while you masturbate me using your magical power." He yawned, and continued, "I also intend to learn how to do it to you. Both of you. Probably not at the same time. But considering my state of tiredness, not yet, and considering my talents, I will need to work it up from a written spell. So for now, you can entertain each other if you will, and I will offer gentle encouragement"

"Well, in that case," said Jonathan, "let's all go to bed. Properly, I mean."

So they did.


	6. Chapter 6

Jonathan said he always preferred it if Gilbert could actually keep his eyes open, so they gave him a candlemark's sleep to refresh his alertness.

"How well do you think the Stone of Protection works, gentlemen?" asked Gilbert, when they woke him.

Childermass gave his most put-upon sigh. "I took it out now the Small War is over."

Gilbert got up and picked it up. "Get up a moment, you two."

They got up, and Gilbert replaced it. "We put in protections against being squashed," he mentioned. "Now we are no longer at war with the imps, we could test the workmanship."

Childermass gave a shout of laughter. "You _would,_ wouldn't you!"

"It didn't occur to me at the time," said Mr Norrell. 

"What?" said Jonathan, apparently trying to catch up. 

"He wants both of us," said Childermass. "Maybe trying to fuck each other _through_ him. With him in the middle getting flattened, and his prick worked against someone every time we move."

They spent perhaps ten minutes checking the workmanship, but both Mr Norrell and Childermass decided it was perfectly sound. (Jonathan had to sit out questions of quality and checking because it wasn't his strong point). Mr Norrell looked up a spell to make sure he wouldn't overheat and faint, ruining all the fun. 

Then they all lay down, cautiously at first. Oh, this was wonderful. Heat and friction all around him. Childermass was on top, slowly sinking into Jonathan. 

"I wonder..." said Mr Norrell, stretching to slip his fingers around where they were joined. 

_"No,"_ they said firmly.

"You don't know what I was going to ask," said Mr Norrell, slightly huffily.

"Was it 'do you think you could _both_ manage to fuck me?'" said Jonathan. 

"Lucky guess," said Mr Norrell happily between them, because it was really _intensely_ pleasurable anyway. He shut his eyes. "On second thoughts, keep doing that. Don't stop." It felt as though he were completely enveloped, the three of them smoothly together, he did not need to move at all because the rhythm was doing just what he wanted, just what they all wanted. Plastered together. If anyone had asked him if he'd be able to breathe like this an hour ago he'd have said not to risk it, but he had no such problems. His lungs were functioning beautifully. His _prick_ was definitely functioning beautifully. Hardly able to move, but pressing and sweetly rubbing against hot skin, and against Jonathan's equally-firm organ.

"I _suppose_ we could try putting the magic between us," suggested Jonathan rather reluctantly from underneath. "If it really makes the effect so much better."

"No," said Mr Norrell absently, mainly because he'd been too engaged in what they were doing to think about anything else. He'd heard of lovers being "as one", but he believed that normally came in pairs, rather than triplets.

"Don't worry," said Childermass breathlessly behind him. "When he's getting it thoroughly is about the only time he won't complain." Apparently as a reward, he eased them apart _just slightly_ enough to feel a touch of cool air where they had felt so closely pressed, and gently trailed one hand around Gilbert's sensitive bits.

Gilbert said something not entirely to the point, possibly, "Oh!" at the feel of fingertips on his inner thighs and balls. It felt so intimate, when he could have sworn nothing would ever feel more intimate than all of them pressed together. He sighed happily.

"Good?" enquired Childermass.

"Want. Now," replied Gilbert (meaning _"Very_ good," and "Yes, please,"), at the same time as Jonathan was also remarking on the excellence of the experience. He felt Jonathan come--the wetness against his skin that he rather wanted inside him--but the moisture wasn't enough to cool him down, and he complained fervently as Jonathan moved away: "What d'you mean 'after', it's 'before'!"

"Fair's fair," said Jonathan rather breathlessly. "You're usually the one that goes first."

He felt rather than heard Childermass's deep chuckle. "You would both want to at once."

"I still do!" snapped Mr Norrell. 

"Let's get us all sorted-out, then," said Childermass.

Mr Norrell was interested to notice that Childermass hadn't finished either.

So was Jonathan. "Ouch," he complained mildly, possibly because Childermass was extracting himself more hastily than might be desirable before the end of the proceedings, and Childermass kissed his shoulder. 

So did Gilbert, although he added, "If _you_ don't want it, I will be perfectly happy to oblige."

They arranged themselves so that Jonathan could slip a friendly arm round them while Childermass indulged him with a slow rocking stroke.

“Harder, harder!” Mr Norrell demanded, since Childermass was being irritatingly slow.

Then he complained, and Childermass said, “Make up your mind!”

“I always know my own mind,” said Mr Norrell, slightly confused that no-one else knew it; he was the simplest of men! “And when I said ‘Don’t pull it off!’ I didn’t mean stop.”

Childermass sighed, quite as though he were being unreasonable.

Mr Norrell complained.

"Which?" said Childermass.

Mr Norrell wanted to snap at him _You know what I like!_ and _I'm in the mood to have you in me hard and deep--coming in me hard and deep_ and _while you rub me in front so gently it hurts_ and all those words stuck together in a sort of log-jam where his teeth locked shut. He _loathed_ it when he couldn't master his words. Especially when he rather thought it might make the unflappable Childermass a bit...flappable, as it sometimes did when he was particularly needy.

He said, "mmp," and shut his mouth again.

Mr Strange, whom he had momentarily forgotten, said, "May I? Sir?"

Mr Norrell said, "eep," very quietly.

Flawlessly, Mr Strange repeated, in the third person, exactly what he had been thinking, and then turned to him and said, "Do I have it right?" and Mr Norrell knew he had been understood, but understood by someone so kind that he would not take advantage of having overheard or underheard him, but would let him back out.

So he said, rather quietly, "Yes."

Childermass, who was sweating and slightly breathless against him, began to thrust vigorously into him, and panted, “I can manage your ’hard thrusting’. Don’t think I’ve the control to handle you gently at the same time.”

Mr Norrell would have felt momentarily disappointed if Mr Strange hadn’t filled in most ably with the gentle rubbing. The contrast felt just as delicious as he’d imagined it, and he sighed, and came all over Jonathan’s stroking hand as Childermass filled him.

There was one very important thing he had to know afterwards: "Do you always do that?"

Jonathan chuckled, “If I did, I imagine you’d know.”

“But what happened? I don’t think I would like you noising my thoughts abroad on the whole.”

“You liked it then,” said Jonathan unanswerably, but took pity enough to say, “It’s my magical style again. As I can hear a wood or a flight of rooks, for example. You were just thinking too loudly, which you don’t by any means by habit. It felt as though I could hear those words get stuck because you were _thinking_ all of them very loudly, they were just caught at your lips and you didn’t have the breath to say any of it, nor the sense to know which you should speak. If you hadn’t been so close to speaking, I would not have been able to hear you.”

"That's a pity," said Childermass. "If he'd known how he did it I'd ask him to teach me. It would save so much time when you sulk."

Mr Norrell said, "I never..." and closed his mouth firmly. 

"Of course you don't," agreed his lovers. Childermass wiped them, and then all of them came together to sleep.

That had, he thought, been a very satisfactory way to celebrate the cessation of hostilities in the Very Small War.


End file.
